FAUSTULA 


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FAUSTULA 

N.  A.  D.  340 

j3fc  kat3%f  pe  - tyhe,*r>  F>-aWs 


By 

JOHN  AYSCOUGH  i ' 

AUTHOR  OF  “MAROTZ,”  MEZZOGIORNO,”  HURDCOTT,”  ETC. 


cSsrSj^f  LrBRARY 

Mass. 


New  York,  Cincinnati,  Chicago 

BENZIGER  BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS  OF  BENZIGER’s  MAGAZINE 

1912 


pa 

6a<3S 
,t  3 
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tf/2- 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY  BeNZIGER  BROTHERS 


To 

THE  LADY  GLENCONNER , 
WILSFORD  MANOR , 
SALISBURY  PLAIN . 

Dear  Lady  Glenconner , 

You  have  accepted  the  dedication  of  this 
booh , which  you  have  never  read , because  you 
read  Hurdcott  and  liked  it.  I hope  you  will 
like  Faustula  too,  and  not  only  Fatjstula 
the  book , but  Faustula  the  heroine  of  it. 
There  was  a special  reason  why  Hurdcott 
should  appeal  to  you:  it  was  in  a sense  a Wilt- 
shire book,  though  only  in  one  sense.  The 
chief  personages  were  not  really  Wiltshire 
folk;  they  only  met  here  on  the  plain , but  the 
air  they  breathed  was  that  of  the  downs  we 
love,  and  of  the  river  valleys  that  lie  among 
them.  A real  Wiltshire  book  I durst  not  have 
attempted,  being  only  an  adoptive  son  here. 
Faustula  is  not  even  an  English  book,  and 
the  story  is  of  a time  so  remote  that  to  many  it 
must  be  less  interesting  than  one  dealing  with 
a corner  of  our  own  land,  in  the  beginning  of 
the  century  wherein  all  of  us  were  born  who 

5 


are  no  longer  lucky  enough  to  he  still  children . 
No  writer  can  guess  hef  or  e-hand  whether  his 
work  will  he  approved  or  no;  nor,  while  he  is 
writing , does  he  ever  try  to  guess . He  is  taken 
up  with  the  new  children  he  is  begetting  be- 
tween brain  and  pen , and  has  no  room  in  his 
mind  for  conjecture  as  to  how  others  may  like 
or  mislike  them . If  he  suffered  the  many- 
headed  shadow  of  the  public  to  come  between 
them  and  him , even  to  himself  they  could  never 
be  real  and  living . 

But  when  his  work  is  done , and  these  chil- 
dren of  his  are  fixed  in  all  the  reality  that , for 
himself  at  least,  is  theirs , he  must  begin  to  hope 
that  the  love  he  has  for  them  others  may  share 
with  him.  I hope  you  will  like  Faustula,  not 
the  mere  story  in  which  I have  tried  to  set  her 
forth,  but  the  human  creature,  the  daughter  of 
Faustulus.  Her  other  father  loves  her  as  well 
as  he  loves  Consuelo,  better  than  he  loves 
Marotz.  To  him  it  makes  no  difference  that 
he  chose  she  should  be  born  more  than  fifteen 
hundred  years  ago.  To  him  there  is  no  archaic 
chill  about  her ; all  the  centuries  between  are 
for  him  only  a white  bridge,  far  beneath  which 
all  the  world's  change  lies  dwindled,  upon 
which  she  stands  with  a lonely  cry  for  pity  and 
sympathy.  If  no  one  else  can  answer  it  with 


love , he  must . Her  wrongs  are  hitter  to  him . 
May  they  appeal  to  you  also . If  you  find  her 
worthy  of  the  generous  admiration  you  gave 
to  Consuelo,  I do  not  doubt  that  others  also 
will  receive  into  their  hearts  the  desolate  Ro- 
man girl  for  whom  Clotho  wove  the  thread  so 
harshly  knotted  that  God , not  Atropos,  hent 
down  to  cut . 

JOHN  AYSCOUGH. 

The  Manor  House , 

Winterbourne  Gunner , 

Salisbury  Plain , 

11th  July , 1912. 


f 


I 


FAUSTULA 


FIRST  PART 

CHAPTER  I 

The  October  sun  was  within  half  an  hour 
of  its  setting  when  Faustulus  came  out 
of  the  Decian  Baths,  on  the  Aventine,  and  be- 
gan his  leisurely  saunter  homewards. 

He  walked  for  two  reasons — not  that  he  was 
a man  to  bore  himself  with  reasons  for  doing 
things:  he  was  careful  never  even  to  bore  other 
people.  First  and  chiefly  he  had  a horror  of 
becoming  fat;  his  father,  he  remembered,  grew 
stout,  almost  suddenly,  when  not  much  older 
than  he  was  now ; and  the  elder  Faustulus  had 
till  then  been  remarkable  for  a figure  that  was 
particularly  slim,  graceful  and  aristocratic: 
when  he  ran  to  flesh  all  his  distinction  of  ap- 
pearance had  been  lost. 

Even  now  the  younger  Faustulus  was  not, 
he  confessed  unwillingly,  really  slim,  though 
he  was  sure  few  of  his  contemporaries  were 

9 


10 


FAUSTULA 


more  distinguished-looking : and  he  saw  no  use 
at  all  in  being  aristocratic  unless  one  looked  it. 
It  was  all  very  well  to  claim  descent  from  the 
shepherd  who  foster-fathered  Romulus:  and 
his  sister  Sabina  thought  almost  more  of  it 
than  of  the  wealth  her  husband  had  left  her; 
but  Faustulus  himself  did  not  care  much  for 
pedigrees;  what  he  liked  was  the  subtle  aroma 
high  birth  hangs  about  its  owner  when  people 
are  forced  to  remember  and  acknowledge  its 
presence.  “If  one  looks  like  a plebeian  one 
might  as  well  be  one,”  he  thought.  Besides 
Faustulus  hated  the  idea  of  becoming  fat  be- 
cause he  shrank  with  disgust  from  the  idea  of 
becoming  middle-aged.  To  be  middle-aged 
was  worse  than  being  plebeian,  because  it  was 
more  personal,  and  because,  alas,  it  was  inevi- 
table. One  naturally  struggles  harder  against 
the  inevitable  than  against  what  one  can  actu- 
ally avoid  by  struggling. 

“A  stupid  man  who  lets  himself  get  stout  is 
middle-aged  at  five-and-thirty,”  Faustulus  said 
to  himself : he  had  stood  still  for  a few  mo- 
ments on  the  steps  of  the  baths,  and  was  absent- 
mindedly  glancing  across  towards  the  Christian 
church  of  St.  Prisca.  “But  if  one’s  figure  at 
five-and-thirty  is  practically  what  it  was  at 

five-and-twenty ” He  did  not  complete 

the  argument.  One  only  finishes  up  argu- 


FAUSTULA 


11 


ments  with  dull  persons,  and  Faustulus  was 
perfectly  aware  that  he  was  not  dull. 

It  was  rather  his  custom  of  late  to  allude  to 
himself,  in  these  intimate  conversations,  as  be- 
ing thirty-five : ten  or  eleven  months  ago  he 
had  ignored  the  circumstance ; but,  as  he  would 
be  thirty-six  in  a week  or  so,  he  did  it  pretty 
often  now — while  he  could. 

His  other  reason  for  walking  was  that  he 
was  a gossip,  and  one  can  pick  up  uncon- 
sidered trifles  of  news  on  foot  which  would 
escape  one  otherwise.  And  Faustulus  liked 
looking  about  him : he  had  a whimsical,  observ- 
ing eye  which  provided  him  with  more  things 
to  talk  about  than  anybody  else’s  report  could 
do.  The  streets  never  became  stale  to  him, 
but  always  off ered  something  new  to  catch  his 
indolently  alert  attention. 

And  Faustulus  was  perfectly  good-natured, 
as  so  many  people  are  who  never  put  them- 
selves out  for  anybody,  and  he  knew  that  on 
his  way  home  he  should  hear  something,  or  see 
something,  that  it  would  amuse  poor  Accia  to 
be  told  about.  He  had  the  knack  of  making 
a funny  little  story  out  of  the  merest  nothing. 

“Poor  Accia,”  he  thought,  coming  down  the 
steps,  “what  a nuisance  it  must  be  to  have 
babies.  I remember,  when  I was  growing  up, 
and  my  f ather  used  to  prose  so  much  about  the 


12 


FAUSTULA 


duty,  in  those  of  high  birth,  of  doing  some- 
thing in  the  world  (especially  in  these  beastly 
times  of  new  ideas)  that  I wished  I had  been 
a girl  instead  of  Sabina — who  would  have 
made  an  excellent  soldier — girls  have  so  little 
trouble.  Then  I recollected  the  baby-business, 
and  was  less  disposed  to  quarrel  with  those 
officious  old  maids  the  Fates.  And  Accia 
hates  the  whole  thing  as  much  as  I should. 
She  likes  going  about  and  doing  everything: 
and  one’s  place  gets  filled  if  one  drops  out  of 
it  even  for  two  or  three  months;  especially  at 
Accia’s  age.  One’s  age  is  what  people  say  it 
is,  and  one  can  only  make  them  think  it  al- 
ways the  same  by  always  doing  the  same  things. 
...  I thought  Accia  seemed  out  of  sorts  when 
I left  her:  that  was  why  I hurried  off — it 
would  not  have  done  to  let  her  see  I noticed  it ; 
low-spirits  assert  themselves  the  more  they  are 
officially  recognized.  I knew  I should  hear 
something  to  amuse  her.  The  report  of  the 
victory  of  Constans  and  Constantine’s  death 
will  take  her  out  of  herself — she  loves  to  hear 
about  Emperors:  what  a pity,  for  her  sake, 
there’s  no  Court  here  now.” 

All  the  same  Faustulus  did  not  hurry  home 
to  tell  her.  There  were  things  to  see  on  the 
way.  It  was  the  19th  of  October  and  he  met 
groups  of  soldiers,  and  civilians  too,  making 


FAUSTULA 


13 


their  way  to  the  now  rather  shabby  laurel-grove 
where  the  Arimlustrium  was  still  kept  up  by 
the  people.  It  was  all  very  well  for  the  Em- 
perors to  be  Christian  and  to  frown  at  pagan 
festivals,  but  Rome  was  not  Christian  yet,  and 
people  will  dance  whatever  religion  the  Court 
may  prefer.  So  there  were  plenty  of  idle  folk 
ready  to  find  their  way  to  the  burial-place  of 
King  Tatius  and  celebrate  him  by  martial 
dances.  Faustulus  half  thought  he  would  go 
himself,  but  changed  his  mind  and  walked 
leisurely  on.  He  noted  the  house  where  Livius 
Andronicus,  the  playwriter,  had  lived  a hun- 
dred and  thirty  years  or  so  before,  and  idly 
wondered  whether  another  house  was  really 
that  in  which  Ovid’s  friend,  the  poet  Gallus, 
had  lived. 

“Totis,  Galle,  jubes  tibi  me  servire  diebus. 

Et  per  Aventinum  ter  quater  ire  tuum,” 

he  quoted. 

A mere  cottage,  in  a scrap  of  vineyard,  was, 
he  knew,  said  to  be  that  in  which  the  other  poet 
Ennius  had  turned  his  lay  with  none  to  listen 
but  his  single  slave. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  where  the  Clivus  Pub- 
licius  began  he  paused  a moment  to  admire  the 
view  of  Hadrian’s  mausoleum  in  the  yellow 
distance,  and  to  picture  to  himself  Caius  Grac- 


14 


FAUSTULA 


chus  and  Marcus  Flaccus  hurrying  up,  with 
Death  in  close  pursuit,  to  sanctuary  in  the 
Temple  of  Diana  close  by. 

Then  he  sauntered  easily  down  the  sloping 
road,  not  hurrying,  for  he  never  hurried. 

His  own  house  was  close  under  the  Palatine, 
and  near  the  Temple  of  Romulus,  into  which 
he  saw  a girl,  whose  figure  seemed  familiar 
(but  he  did  not  notice  particularly,  and  her 
back  was  to  him),  hastening  with  a child 
pressed  to  her  bosom.  No  doubt  the  baby  was 
sick,  and  the  mother  was  taking  it  to  touch  the 
bronze  she-wolf,  and  get  it  cured. 

He  smiled  indulgently,  for  after  all  the  wolf 
would  do  the  child  as  much  good  as  the  doctor, 
probably,  and  cost  less.  He  often  smiled,  too, 
to  think  how  devoutly  his  sister  Sabina  believed 
that  their  house  stood  on  what  had  been  the 
herding-ground,  perhaps  the  very  fold,  of 
Faustulus  the  shepherd.  Personally  he  was 
sure  the  site  had  been  given  by  Nero  to  a 
Faustulus  whose  tastes  had  been  about  as  pas- 
toral as  those  of  the  Emperor,  an  ancestor  who 
had  been  fortunate  in  attracting  the  Imperial 
favour  only  a few  months  before  Nero’s  death, 
so  that  he  had  contrived  to  keep  both  it  and  his 
house. 

Faustulus  entered  unobserved ; there  were  no 
slaves  about  the  door,  and  he  was  quite  indiff  er- 


FAUSTULA 


15 


ent  to  their  absence:  he  was  not  a man  who 
cared  for  the  fuss  of  respect,  and  liked  well 
enough  to  slip  in  and  out  without  parade. 
Sometimes  he  would  do  so  deliberately — to  go 
about  the  town  alone,  when  his  household,  per- 
haps, supposed  him  to  be  at  home,  gave  a sort 
of  fillip  to  his  wanderings,  lent  a mild  sense 
of  incognito  to  his  unattended  state  that  made 
every  such  small  stroll  a kind  of  adventure  in 
miniature. 

“You  always  see  so  much,”  Accia  would  re- 
mark admiringly — if  she  happened  to  be  in  a 
good  humour. 

“Because  I do  not  always  trail  about  with  a 
lot  of  slaves  and  toadies  to  tell  everyone  who’s 
coming,”  he  would  reply,  quite  pleased  with  her 
compliment  and  with  himself. 

Of  course  such  solitary  rambles  were  not  al- 
ways particularly  dignified:  nor  did  he  trouble 
Accia  to  hear  of  all  he  saw,  or  of  all  the  queer 
nooks  and  corners  of  the  city  into  which  they 
led  him. 

He  passed  through  the  porthyra , with  a cella 
on  each  side,  one  for  the  chained  porter  and 
the  other  for  the  chained  dog:  the  chains  were 
there  still  ( as  one  may  see  in  London  now  out- 
side great  houses  the  extinguishers  for  the  link- 
boys’  torches)  but  Faustulus  did  not  keep  a 
street-door  dog,  and  that  cella  was  empty ; and 


16 


FAUSTULA 


the  porter  opposite  was  held  by  no  harder  chain 
than  that  of  sleep. 

The  sun  was  set  now,  but  there  was  a rosy 
glow  that  filled  the  atrium  with  a pretty  flush 
that  Faustulus  paused  a moment  to  enjoy. 
He  had  a great  deal  of  appreciation  and  was 
determined  never  to  lose  the  pleasures  it 
brought  him.  Not  to  lose  a pleasure  was  his 
philosophy  of  life. 

“And  so  many  pleasures  cost  nothing,”  he 
told  himself,  “neither  money,  nor  health,  nor 
trouble.  Lots  of  mine  are  common  property, 
and  yet  I have  them  to  myself.” 

The  water  fell  into  the  tank  in  the  middle 
of  the  atrium  with  a soft,  purring  trickle,  for 
the  fountain  was  not  large  nor  high,  and  it 
played,  as  it  were,  lazily,  not  with  a loud,  boom- 
ing spurt. 

The  little  statues  of  the  gods,  set  up  on  low 
pillars,  were  old  but  only  of  tolerable  artistic 
merit,  and  insignificant  in  size.  Of  course 
Faustulus  had  not  set  them  there:  they  were 
probably  about  as  old  as  the  house  which  Nero’s 
favourite  had  built  in  the  year  after  the  great 
fire. 

Faustulus  regarded  them  with  careless  crit- 
icism untempered  by  devotion. 

“They  are  much  too  small!”  he  thought: 
“they  look,  in  this  pink  light,  like  dolls.  Im- 


FAUSTULA 


17 


ages  of  gods  at  all  events  should  be  of  heroic 
size.  There’s  nothing  impressive  in  a mani- 
kin Jupiter.  One  small  image  of  a god,  in 
some  inner  private  room,  may  be  tolerable. 
But  a dozen  of  them,  each  no  bigger  than  a 
monkey,  in  an  atrium  of  this  size — I should 
like  to  bundle  them  all  away,  but  Sabina  would 
think  it  impiety  and  the  busy-bodies  would  say 
I was  turning  Christian.  One  large  good  copy 
of  the  Wolf  (with  our  foster-uncles)  would  be 
tolerable,  and  I know  where  there  is  one,  in  a 
builder’s  yard  of  the  Suburra.  Well,  Flavia; 
no  one  to  play  with?” 

A little  girl,  perhaps  five  years  old,  was 
peeping  at  him  round  one  of  the  pillars,  with  a 
shy  finger  thrust  into  her  mouth,  and  the  other 
plump  wee  hand  slowly  moving  up  and  down 
the  base  of  the  column.  She  was  enough  like 
himself  to  show  that  she  was  his  daughter, 
though  she  was  dark,  like  Accia,  while  Faustu- 
lus  was  of  f air  complexion  with  dark  grey  eyes 
and  bronze-brown  hair. 

“Ah,  Flavia ! Y ou  won’t  be  pet  rabbit  much 
longer,”  he  observed  with  a monitory  shake  of 
the  head.  “Your  mother  only  cares  for  the 
last.  Why  can’t  you  go  on  being  the  last? 
After  so  well-considered  a pause  why  should 
your  mother  begin  again?” 

Flavia  continued  to  smooth  the  pillar,  and  to 


18 


FAUSTULA 


stare : but  aff ected  no  interest  in  the  conversa- 
tion. 

‘Where’s  Tatius?” 

The  small  child  drew  out  the  finger  from  her 
mouth  and  pointed  towards  an  inner  room. 

The  sunset-glow  had  faded  now,  and  the 
hasty  twilight  was  already  filling  with  dark 
shadow  the  spaces  between  the  pillars,  behind 
which  were  the  various  rooms  of  the  great 
house.  There  was  a sort  of  wintriness  in  the 
chill  grey  that  fell  so  swiftly. 

“I  wish  they  would  light  the  lamps,”  thought 
Faustulus:  he  disliked  sombre  half-lights  and 
loved  warmth  and  brightness. 

Out  of  the  shadow  a lady  came,  rather  hur- 
riedly, and  said  at  once : 

“Faustulus,  where  have  you  been?” 

She  was  tall  like  her  brother,  but  a year  or  so 
older,  and  in  her  case  there  was  no  threat  of 
fatness:  if  she  grew  old  she  would  become  lean 
and  bony.  Her  dress  was  somewhat  old-fash- 
ioned and  made  her  appear  older  than  she  was, 
while  Faustulus  affected  the  extreme  of  youth- 
ful fashion. 

“Where  have  you  been?”  she  asked.  “We 
have  been  sending  everywhere  for  you.” 

“Not  quite  everywhere.  Had  you  sent  to 
the  Decian  Baths  you  would  have  found  me.” 
“We  sent  to  the  Baths  of  Diocletian ” 


FAUSTULA 


19 


“I  was  there  yesterday — What  is  the  matter? 
Poor  Accia?  Is  Flavia’s  new  rival  come — or 
on  the  point  of  arrival — Yes?  I hope  Accia  is 
not  very  uncomfortable:  not  suffering  much? 
Not  frightened,  surely  ?” 

There  was  too  little  light  for  the  expression 
of  Sabina’s  face  to  be  seen,  but  he  felt  that 
her  manner  was  grave — as  it  mostly  was. 

As  she  began  to  speak  she  made  a slight 
movement  to  take  Flavia’s  hand  in  hers,  but 
the  child  drew  back  and  slipped  away.  She 
did  not  care  for  her  father’s  sister.  He  teased 
her,  but  she  liked  him,  for  he  was  a man:  Sa- 
bina was  only  a woman,  and  quite  old  as  Flavia 
considered. 

“Accia  is  not  frightened  now,”  Sabina  said 
with  a grave  pity  in  her  voice.  “She  was. 
The  child  was  born  two  or  three  hours  ago.” 
“Ah!  A new  Tatius  or  a new  Flavia?” 
“Faustulus,  don’t.  Can  you  not  see  I have 
been  trying  to  prepare  you  for  bad  news?  Ac- 
cia’s  fears  are  over:  if  we  could  have  found 
you,  you  might  have  bade  her  farewell.  But 
she  did  not  know  you  were  not  there.” 

Faustulus  knew  very  well  that  he  was  glad 
they  had  not  found  him,  since  poor  Accia  would 
not  even  have  known  he  was  at  her  side.  He 
shrank  from  all  painful  emotion,  from  which 
his  soft  sensuous  temperament  was  by  no 


20 


FAUSTULA 


means  immune:  he  shrank  from  the  emotion  of 
the  present  moment  which  was  quite  bad 
enough.  He  carefully  abstained  even  from 
telling  himself,  in  so  many  words,  that  Accia 
was  dead:  his  real  desire  was  to  go  out  again 
and  have  numbers  of  living  people  around  him. 
He  was  grateful  to  the  slaves  who  came  with 
lighted  lamps  and  hung  them  up  between  the 
pillars:  Sabina,  he  suspected  with  irritation, 
would  have  forbidden  the  house  to  be  lighted 
up,  in  sign  of  mourning — as  if  the  fact  of 
mourning  was  not  enough  without  dismal  gra- 
tuitous signs  of  it.  But  his  sister  was  only  a 
guest  and  f ar  too  well-bred  to  assume  there  any 
functions  of  authority.  She  would  not  even 
suggest  that  he  should  go  and  see  his  dead  wife : 
she  left  it  to  himself,  and  was  angered  rather 
than  surprised  to  see  that  he  turned  away  and 
went  to  his  own  luxurious  room. 


CHAPTER  II 


Sabina  was  almost  out  of  date ; a woman  who 
should  have  lived  in  the  austere  days  of  the 
Republic,  with  feelings  and  prejudices  quite 
out  of  touch  with  these  times  of  the  Late  Em- 
pire. She  was  intensely  pagan,  out  of  con- 
servatism, and  disliked  Christians  stoutly,  and 
disliked  them  more  since  the  change  in  their 
position  brought  about  by  Constantine’s  con- 
version. The  late  Emperor’s  change  to  Chris- 
tianity and  endeavours  to  suppress  the  worship 
of  the  gods  made  her  cling  to  them  more 
rigidly. 

Her  idea  of  life,  and  especially  of  the  life  of 
nobles,  was  adherence  to  fixed,  plain  rules  of 
duty  and  public  service:  pleasure  and  dissipa- 
tion she  despised,  amusement  she  suspected. 

She  had  a sisterly,  habitual  affection  for  her 
brother,  but  it  was  deep  rather  than  warm,  and 
largely  sustained  by  the  fact  that  he  was  the 
head  of  their  ancient  family.  Personal  fond- 
ness for  him  she  found  different:  of  almost 
every  characteristic  he  possessed,  and  he  had  a 
good  many,  she  disapproved  silently. 

“Sabina  does  not  like  me”  he  assured  Accia, 

who  was  jealous  of  everybody  who  liked  her 

21 


22  FAUSTULA 

husband.  4 4 She  only  cares  for  her  father’s  son, 
Faustulus.” 

“But  that  is  you,”  Accia  pointed  out. 

“Oh,  no!  The  Faustulus  she  feels  it  her 
duty  to  have  a regard  for  is  merely  the  head 
of  the  Faustuli,  the  descendant  and  representa- 
tive of  that  tedious  shepherd.  Tm  not  tedious, 
am  I,  Accia?” 

“No,  but  she  is — I don’t  want  to  be  a Roman 
Matron  and  look  like  a statue.” 

“You  don’t  a bit.  You  don’t  walk  this 
way.” 

And  Accia  laughed  herself  back  into  good- 
humour  to  see  him  imitate  his  sister’s  majestic 
gait.  “As  if  she  had  no  feet,  only  a pedestal,” 
she  declared,  clapping  her  plump  hands. 

Sabina  knew  well  enough  that  her  sister-in- 
law  did  not  like  her,  and  it  troubled  her  very 
little:  she  could  dispense  as  easily  with  the 
affection  of  a perverse  kitten.  But  it  had 
seemed  hard  to  her  that  the  frightened  girl 
(for  at  thirty  Accia  really  was  a girl  still,  and 
need  not  have  been  at  such  pains  to  set  up  for 
one)  should  have  only  had  the  sister-in-law 
she  shrank  from  at  her  side,  as  she  lay  con- 
fronted with  the  chill  approach  of  death,  in- 
stead of  the  cheerful,  easy,  careless,  selfish 
husband  whom  she  really  liked  in  her  fashion. 

Accia  had  indulged  in  quite  a number  of 


FAUSTULA 


23 


flirtations  which  Faustulus  knew  all  about  and 
did  not  grudge  her  in  the  least,  entirely  refus- 
ing to  wonder  whether  they  were  serious  or  no. 
Sabina  had  heard  about  them  too,  up  in  her 
castle  among  the  hills  by  Olibanum,  and  their 
notoriety  had  angered  her  deeply.  Neverthe- 
less she  knew,  as  well  as  Faustulus  himself,  that 
if  the  vain,  silly,  pleasure-loving,  sensuous  wife 
had  anything  like  sincere  affection  for  anyone 
it  was  for  her  idle,  selfish,  self-indulgent,  ut- 
terly conscienceless  husband. 

Had  Faustulus  beaten  her,  quite  soundly, 
and  kissed  away  her  noisy  tears  afterwards, 
Accia  would  have  liked  him,  perhaps,  all  the 
better:  and  Sabina,  for  her  part,  would  have 
thought  the  beatings  thoroughly  wholesome, 
whether  Accia  liked  him  better  or  not : but  such 
archaic  discipline  was  far  too  old-fashioned  for 
Faustulus:  besides  he  hated  tears  and  scenes 
and  reconciliations,  and  had  no  grudge  against 
faulty  conduct  which  did  not  interfere  with 
his  own.  Accia  had  annoyed  him  more  by  dy- 
ing than  by  any  previous  indiscretion ; and  her 
life  had  never  been  discreet.  For  their  station 
they  were  not  at  all  rich,  and  she  had  been  in- 
curably extravagant — the  table  in  his  room  was 
littered  now  with  outrageous  bills  of  hers : but 
there  were  plenty  of  his  own,  and  it  was  rather 
the  people  whose  creditors  they  both  were 


24 


FAUSTULA 


whom  he  regarded  as  the  common  enemy:  not 
that  he  had  any  very  deep  enmity  to  them 
either:  when  you  have  no  present  intention  of 
paying  your  bills  your  grudge  against  your 
creditors  need  not  be  rancorous. 

Faustulus  was  more  sorry  for  Accia’s  death 
for  her  sake  than  for  his  own:  naturally,  she 
had  wished  to  live,  and,  as  she  had  enjoyed  her 
vacuous,  shallow  life,  it  seemed  hard  she  should 
be  deprived  of  it. 

Poor  Accia!  where  was  she  now?  In  the 
Elysian  Fields?  He  half  smiled  as  the  trite 
smug  phrase  rose  to  his  lips.  He  did  not  be- 
lieve in  the  Elysian  Fields  at  all.  He  did  not 
believe  in  anything,  neither  in  the  gods,  nor 
in  men,  nor  in  himself.  He  was  no  worse 
than  half  the  gods,  and  most  of  the  men  he 
knew  were  about  as  good  as  himself : that  he 
was  bad  he  did  not  feel;  it  is  good  men,  re- 
membering their  faults,  who  feel  themselves 
bad. 

“The  Elysian  Fields!  Fancy  Accia  in  the 
Elysian  Fields ! How  it  would  bore  her!  Of 
course  she  is  really  nowhere.  . . But  that, 
too,  seemed  bleak  and  dismal,  till  he  remem- 
bered that  it  merely  meant  that  she  was  pre- 
cisely where  she  had  been  about  thirty  years 
ago.  At  all  events  she  was  no  longer  in  pain 
— and  Accia  never  could  have  borne  pain  for 


FAUSTULA 


25 


long:  or  even  uncomfortable,  as  she  had  loudly 
complained  of  being  for  some  weeks. 

That  he  could  himself  do  very  well  without 
her  was  so  obvious  that  he  did  not  state  the 
fact  even  in  his  inmost  mind — it  was  not  his 
way  to  make  obvious  statements.  For  years 
it  had  been  his  daily  task  to  keep  her  in  good 
humour — that  he  should  have  taken  the  trou- 
ble was  a proof  of  his  being  at  any  rate  good- 
humoured  himself : what  had  helped  him  was 
the  sense  it  gave  him  of  his  own  tact  and  skill. 
To  know  that  you  are  doing  a rather  difficult 
thing  constantly  and  almost  easily  is  a tribute 
to  your  powers.  Faustulus  was  an  artist  with 
the  knowledge  of  his  own  achievement : he  did 
not  want  people  to  wonder  at  his  patience  with 
a tiresome  wife;  he  merely  prevented  her  as 
often  as  possible  from  being  tiresome.  Still  it 
had  been  an  effort,  and  he  was  too  indolent  not 
to  feel  some  relief  in  the  knowledge  that  no  fur- 
ther effort  would  be  called  for.  He  had  never 
in  the  least  disliked  Accia : instead  of  yielding 
to  irritations  at  her  many  foibles  he  had  chosen 
to  find  in  them  material  for  amusement — al- 
ways conscious  of  the  accomplishment  it  im- 
plied in  himself.  The  fretfulness  of  a selfish 
and  perverse  child  entertains  some  parents,  and 
he  had  made  a child  of  her,  not  at  all  against  her 
will. 


26 


FAUSTULA 


That  he  would  miss  her  much  he  did  not  now 
pretend  for  a moment : his  regret,  such  as  it  was, 
for  her  death  was  purely  good-natured — on  her 
own  account;  he  had  never  grudged  her  her 
pleasures  and  would  have  liked  her  to  go  on 
living  since  that  was  her  principal  pleasure. 
She  had  been  irritably  jealous,  though  quite 
careless  as  to  affording  him  grounds  for  jeal- 
ousy; jealous  even  of  her  own  children  when 
he  seemed  more  amused  by  them  than  by  her. 
People  called  her  good-natured,  because  she 
was  a plump,  easy-seeming  creature,  given  to 
much  noisy,  rather  causeless  laughter.  Faus- 
tulus  knew  she  was  not  even  good-tempered; 
and  she  was  really  stupid  though  able  to  make 
sharp,  clumsy  gibes  at  her  friends,  which  she  al- 
ways did  with  a squealing  laugh  that  made  peo- 
ple think  her  merely  kittenish  and  funny.  She 
was  greedy,  liking  nothing  so  much  as  good 
food.  Her  plumpness  was  not  due  entirely 
to  her  easy  disposition : if  she  supped  on  the  sly, 
with  a wealthy  or  extravagant  admirer,  it  was 
the  supper  she  went  for  much  more  than  for  the 
society  of  her  host. 

Faustulus  ate  rather  sparingly,  though  he 
would  eat  of  the  most  delicate  fare,  and  had 
an  idea  that  women  should  not  be  seen  eating 
at  all;  there  should  be  little  retired  rooms  for 
their  repasts  into  which  it  would  be  an  indeli- 


FAUSTULA 


27 


cacy  for  a man  to  enter.  Accia,  in  spite  of  her 
rank,  had  many  ways  of  a peasant,  and  would 
even  eat  audibly,  and  smack  her  lips  a little 
when  a dainty  dish  gave  satisfaction,  hut  her 
husband  would  not  remember  that  now;  poor 
girl,  her  faults  were  all  at  an  end;  he  had  never 
borne  heavily  on  them,  why*should  he  recall 
them  now? 

And  he  was  too  courteous  even  to  let  him- 
self remember  that,  practically,  her  death 
might  prove  a way  out  of  difficulties  which  he 
had  never  chosen  to  weigh  or  face.  They  were 
in  debt,  and  had  been  living  at  double  the  rate 
their  income  could  cover ; as  Accia  had  been  re- 
sponsible for  at  least  the  larger  half  of  this 
expenditure,  but  he  would  not  think  of  that. 

He  supped,  lightly  and  briefly,  alone,  there 
in  his  own  room.  He  would  not  go  to  the  tri- 
clinium where  he  would  have  to  sit  with  Sabina 
and  it  would  be  hard  to  ignore  the  solemn  event 
of  the  day.  When  he  had  finished,  there  came 
a light  knock  at  the  door,  and  he  supposed  it 
was  the  slaves  coming  to  take  away  the  dishes. 
He  remembered  how  that  door  used  to  be  a 
grievance  with  Accia,  who  said  he  ought  to 
have  only  a curtain;  there  was  a curtain  as 
well,  but  it  hung  inside,  for  he  had  been  quite 
aware  that  his  wife  could  listen  at  doors. 

As  no  one  entered  he  paused  a moment  be- 


28 


FAUSTULA 


fore  giving  any  signal  for  the  person,  who- 
ever it  was  that  knocked,  to  enter;  it  might  be 
his  sister  and  he  wondered  idly  if  the  curtain 
prevented  the  light  from  showing  under  the 
door.  Then  the  knock  was  repeated,  a very 
humble,  gentle  knock,  and  he  rose  and  went  to 
the  door.  There  was  moonlight  in  the  atrium 
now,  and  the  fountain  was  silent.  “Sabina,” 
he  thought  with  his  whimsical  smile,  “has  had 
it  stopped.” 

By  his  door  stood  a slave,  a mere  girl,  with 
a child  pressed  to  her  breast. 

“Clodia!”  he  said,  almost  in  a whisper,  and 
drew  back  into  his  room. 

“Do  not  be  angry,”  she  said  in  a low  voice  of 
sad  humility.  For  months  she  had  not  been 
there  or  put  herself  in  his  way. 

“What  is  it?”  he  asked,  closing  the  door 
noiselessly. 

“The  child,”  she  whispered,  without  raising 
her  eyes  from  his  feet.  Less  than  a year  ago 
he  had  thought  those  large,  deep  eyes  beauti- 
ful. He  had  quite  forgotten  them.  But, 
scamp  as  he  was,  his  nature  was  not  brutal,  nor 
cruel.  Because  he  was  simply  indifferent  to 
the  girl  he  did  not  treat  her  harshly,  or  order 
her  away  with  rough  authority. 

“The  child,”  she  murmured,  pressing  her 
baby  closer  to  her. 


FAUSTULA 


29 


He  barely  glanced  at  it.  He  was  thinking 
for  the  moment  of  the  child  that  had  cost  Accia 
her  trivial  life.  He  almost  smiled  again  as  he 
remembered  that  he  did  not  even  know  yet 
whether  it  were  boy  or  girl.  That  the  slave 
should  be  thinking  of  her  own  baby,  to-night, 
when  all  the  house  must  be  occupied  with  the 
fateful  arrival  of  the  other,  did  not  even  occur 
to  him;  for,  though  he  laughed  at  pedigrees, 
he  was  aristocratic  to  his  backbone,  what  there 
was  of  it. 

“It  is  dead,”  Clodia  said  simply,  and  pressed 
her  baby  closer. 

For  an  instant  he  still  thought  she  was  speak- 
ing of  Accia’s  child;  and,  with  easy  good-na- 
ture, he  wished  that  it  might  have  died  instead 
of,  and  not  as  well  as,  the  mother. 

“Dead  too;”  he  exclaimed. 

“Yes,  too,”  said  Clodia,  as  one  who  might 
have  said,  “Death  at  all  events  is  for  slave  and 
lord  alike.” 

Something  in  her  voice  and  gesture  did  make 
him  look  more  closely  at  her  baby  at  last;  the 
tiny  hands  were  not  pink,  but  bluish,  and  they 
did  not  close  about  the  mother’s  fingers. 

Had  Clodia  expected  him  to  care?  God 
knows.  She  felt  that  he  did  not.  Had  he  ever 
cared  for  anything?  She  was  ashamed  of  car- 
ing for  him  still,  but  she  did. 


30 


FAUSTULA 


“The  child,”  she  said  simply,  “is  free.” 

“I  went,”  she  continued  hurriedly,  “to  the 
Temple.  I laid  the  child,  between  the  two  oth- 
ers, under  the  wolf.  But  he  was  not  cured.” 

She  lifted  her  eyes  at  last,  and  said  eagerly, 
in  a strange,  plain  voice  without  a tear  in  it: 
“May  I nurse  the  other  one?” 

“You  would  like  to?”  he  asked,  wondering 
to  himself  at  the  oddness  of  a sex  that  on  the 
whole  he  disliked. 

“It  is  yours,  too,  the  other  one,”  she  thought, 
but  did  not  say  so ; she  was  much  prouder  than 
the  master  who  owned  her,  and  ashamed  of  let- 
ting him  see  how  she  loved  him.  She  only 
nodded. 

“Very  well,”  he  answered  easily.  It  seemed 
wonderfully  convenient.  He  was  really 
pleased  to  think  she  might  find  some  distraction 
from  her  merely  personal  disappointment  in 
so  practical  a way. 

“She  wants  me  already,”  the  girl  said 
quietly,  turning  to  the  door,  still  pressing  to  her 
breast  the  baby  that  wanted  it  no  longer. 

“So  it’s  another  girl,”  he  said  to  himself, 
carelessly,  closing  the  door,  and  glad  that  the 
interview  was  over. 

“One  baby  or  another  it’s  all  the  same  to  a 
woman,”  he  told  himself,  smiling  at  the  queer- 
ness of  things. 


FAUSTULA 


31 


Then  he  sat  down  and  took  up  a book,  un- 
rolling it  daintily,  for  he  was  fond  of  books  and 
always  treated  them  respectfully.  He  remem- 
bered how  Accia  detested  them  and  never  let 
him  read  in  her  presence  without  interruption. 

“It  is  a sign  of  an  empty  mind,”  she  would 
say,  sententiously,  “when  people  cannot  sit  still 
without  a book  in  their  hands.  If  one  has 
ideas  of  one’s  own  one  does  not  require  other 
people’s  at  second  hand.  Poetry  too!  That’s 
the  dullest  sort  of  book.  No  one  writes  poetry 
who  has  anything  to  say  he  could  not  say  in 
prose.  Poets  are  people  who  don’t  know  what 
they  have  to  write  about ; so  they  put  it  in  verse 
hoping  it  may  turn  out  something.” 


CHAPTER  III 


Faustulus  had  borne  no  selfish  grudge 
against  Accia  for  dying  except  for  the 
abominable  necessity  it  would  lay  upon  him  of 
presiding  at  her  funeral.  The  funeral  cere- 
monies were  now  all  over,  and  her  ashes  had 
been  duly  deposited  in  their  urn,  in  one  of  the 
niches  of  the  family  columbarium  on  the  Ap- 
pian  Way.  Her  name  was  soon  forgotten  al- 
most as  completely  as  if  she  had  never  borne  it. 
There  was  not  much  to  remember  about  her: 
her  beauty  had  never  been  more  than  prettiness, 
and  it  had  barely  lasted  her  time : she  had  never 
cared  much  for  anyone,  or  done  anything  for 
anybody;  and  unwavering  selfishness  may  se- 
cure a good  deal  of  attention  during  life,  but 
does  not,  in  private  persons,  secure  immortality 
afterwards. 

“So  you  are  going  home,”  Faustulus  re- 
marked with  polite  regret  to  his  sister.  He 
always  was  polite,  not  only  to  strangers,  but 
even  to  his  own  family.  But  there  was  more 
politeness  than  regret  in  his  voice. 

“Your  visit  has  not  been  very  cheerful,”  he 
added.  To  his  ideas  a return,  in  late  autumn, 
to  a castle  among  the  Sabine  Hills,  did  not 

32 


FAUSTULA 


33 


sound  very  cheerful  either:  but  he  never  fell 
into  the  stupidity  of  supposing  that  his  own 
tastes  must  be  those  of  other  people.  Sabina’s 
estates  were  large  and  he  knew  she  liked  look- 
ing after  them  herself:  nothing  would  have 
bored  him  more. 

“Yes.  I must  go  home:  after  a month’s  ab- 
sence there  will  be  plenty  to  do,  Faustulus.” 
“Well?” 

“Shall  I take  Faustula  with  me?” 

He  smiled  lightly  at  the  name;  it  seemed 
rather  big  for  a very  small  baby — which  he  had 
scarcely  seen  yet ; and  the  endless  insistence  on 
that  eternal  shepherd  amused  him,  too.  But 
the  proposal  seemed  extremely  convenient. 
Convenient  things  were  continually  happening 
to  him:  because,  he  told  himself,  he  never  raft 
after  them.  “There  should  be,”  he  thought,  in 
parenthesis,  “a  Goddess  Convenience.  An  old 
maid  (Aunt  of  Good  Fortune  perhaps),  a ca- 
pricious, always  smiling  and  disobliging  her 
toadies,  and  toadying  those  who  ignored  her.” 
“It  is  very  kind  of  you,”  he  replied  aloud. 
“I  hope  Faustula  will  amuse  you.” 

His  sister’s  motive  was  probably  not  to 
amuse  herself,  as  he  was  perfectly  aware;  but 
he  enjoyed  teasing  her,  which  was  the  only  way 
in  which  he  could  get  any  amusement  out  of 
her. 


34 


FAUSTULA 


“I  have  no  child  of  my  own:  and  you  have 
more  than  you  know  what  to  do  with.” 

“Three  more,”  he  assented  blandly. 

“I  do  not  offer  to  take  Flavia:  the  child 
does  not  like  me ” 

“Oh,  Flavia  is  all  right.  She  is  provided 
for  . . .” 

Sabina  looked  slightly  annoyed,  as  though 
she  thought  he  might  have  told  her  before. 

“I  received  a visit  yesterday,”  he  went  on, 
“from  a very  important  personage;  no  less  a 
dignitary  than  the  Vestal  Domitia:  you  know 
her  visits  are  ceremonies.  She  is  ten  years 
older  than  Accia  and  quite  twenty-five  times 
more  imposing — poor  Accia  was  never  impos- 
ing, even  her  enemies  never  accused  her  of  it. 
Domitia  is  grandiose.  She  expresses  a con- 
descending willingness  to  take  charge  of  Flavia 

“But  Flavia  cannot  go  and  live  in  the  Atrium 
Vestse.” 

“Perhaps  that  is  why  Domitia  perceives  that 
she  would  like  to  have  her.  It  gives  a very 
dignified  pretext  for  retiring  on  her  savings 
to  a house  of  her  own.  After  thirty  years  of 
the  Atrium  Vestse  she  may  be  a little  tired  of 
it.” 

“You  don’t  think  she  is  going  to  marry!”  Sa- 
bina exclaimed,  evidently  scandalized.  Of 


FAUSTULA  35 

course  she  knew  that  a Vestal  could  retire  at 
forty. 

“Probably  not : or  she  would  not  be  so  ready 
to  provide  herself  with  a ready-made  daughter. 
She  can  if  she  likes,  of  course,  and  have  a public 
dowry,  too — she  might  do  it  for  the  dowry,  for 
she  is  tenderly  attached  to  money.” 

“If  I were  a Vestal  I would  not  return  to  the 
world,”  Sabina  declared  with  conviction. 

“It  isn’t  far.  Merely  round  the  corner.  If 
I had  been  a girl  I should  have  been  a Vestal. 
It  would  have  suited  me  very  well.  The  life 
is  easy  and  there  is  plenty  of  money.  I won- 
der Numa  did  not  think  of  having  men  Vestals 
as  well  . . . Domitia  intended  to  be  Vestalis 
Maxima  and  was  furious  when  she  was  passed 
over:  that’s  another  reason  for  her  retiring  now 
she  can.  She  and  Flavia  will  get  on  very  well : 
they  are  rather  like  one  another:  Accia  always 
said  so.” 

It  astounded  Sabina  to  hear  how  easily  he 
talked  of  his  wife,  who  had  not  been  dead  a 
week,  as  if  she  had  been  dead  a year,  or  was 
not  dead  at  all. 

“Well  then,”  she  observed.  “Flavia  is  off 
your  hands.  I will  take  Tatius  for  the  pres- 
ent, too,  if  you  like.  But  he  must  be  educated, 
and  he  is  six  already.  In  a few  years  he  will 
be  too  big  for  me — I could  do  nothing  with  a 


36 


FAUSTULA 


boy  of  nine  or  ten  up  at  home:  he  could  get 
no  education  or  training  with  me.” 

“He  has  a pedagogue  already,  Maltro,  who 
teaches  him  much  more  than  he  wants  to  learn.” 

“A  freedman?” 

“No.  A slave.  I have  thought  of  giving 
him  his  freedom : but  I know  he  has  money  and 
he  may  as  well  buy  it.  He  is  clever,  and  Tatius 
likes  him.” 

“Very  well.  He  may  come,  too,  and  go  on 
teaching  the  child.  But  Faustulus?” 

“Well?”  inquired  her  brother,  who  thought 
the  conversation  a little  prosy  and  long-winded. 

“I  am  taking  the  children  off  your  hands; 
what  could  you  do  with  them?  But  I want  you 
to  understand ” 

“I  never  can  understand  anything,”  her 
brother  protested  airily. 

“But  I must  explain  ...” 

“No,  don’t.  Please  don’t  explain.  Expla- 
nations are  precisely  what  I never  understand.” 

Sabina  was  annoyed  and  said  her  say 
quickly,  being  determined  he  should  hear  it. 

“Then,  without  explanation;  I take  the  chil- 
dren  ” 

“No.  I give  them  to  you,  freely.  Or  say, 
lend  them — polite  people  never  call  loans 
gifts.” 

“But,”  his  sister  went  on  ruthlessly,  “y°u  are 


FAUSTULA 


37 


to  understand  that  Tatius  returns  to  you  pres- 
ently— when  he  is  old  enough.  As  for  Faus- 

tula,  should  she  be  betrothed ” 

“The  first  I heard  of  it,”  Faustulus  inter- 
rupted blandly.  “How  time  flies!” 

“Should  she  be  marriageable  during  my  life 
and  be  betrothed  I will  give  her  a dowry  such 
as  I had  from  my  father.  And  if  I die  first 
she  shall  have  such  dowry  laid  up  for  her;  that 
is  all.  Most  of  what  I have  comes  from  my 
husband  and  he  has  left  relations.  . . 

“Not  disagreeable  I hope?  As  husband’s  re- 
lations are  so  apt  to  be.” 

“I  see  little  of  them.  Some  are  Christians: 
but  not  all.  If  they  prove  deserving  the  prop- 
erty that  came  from  their  family  shall  go  back 
to  it.  Now  I have  said  what  I intended  you 
may  be  as  tiresome  as  you  please ; and  you  are 
enough  to  provoke  the  gods.” 

“They  are  not  difficult  to  provoke.  Their  in- 
firmities of  temper  are  notorious.” 

“Faustulus!  Your  impiety ” 

“Impiety!  My  dear  Sabina,  the  gods  are 
my  very  good  friends.  My  conduct  is  largely 
based  on  theirs  ...  I copy  Jupiter  in  almost 
everything  but  the  thunderbolts.  That  I do 
not  attempt.  In  fact  since  the  Neronian  fire 
the  laws  against  incendiarism  are  so  stringent 
that  I doubt  if  they  would  be  permitted — es- 


38 


FAUSTULA 


pecially  in  this  neighbourhood,  so  near  to  the 
Circus  Maximus,  where  you  will  recollect,  the 
fire  broke  out.  Perhaps  the  Divine  Nero  fell 
into  the  mistake  of  discharging  some  among  the 
wooden  booths  there — it  was  rather  a weakness 
of  his  family  to  imagine  themselves  gods  . . .” 

But  Sabina  would  not  listen.  It  was  enough 
to  bring  a thunderbolt  down  on  her  brother’s 
head.  She  was,  perhaps,  more  angry  than 
afraid,  and  turned  to  leave  the  room  with  un- 
disguised displeasure. 

“Are  you  going  to  denounce  me  for  im- 
piety?” Faustulus  asked,  cheerfully.  “To 
whom?  Remember  the  Pontifex  Maximus  is 
a good  way  off — and  himself  a Christian!” 


CHAPTER  IV 


ON  the  day  following  Sabina  left  Rome, 
and,  duly  attended,  began,  almost  as 
soon  as  it  was  light,  her  journey  home. 

Somewhat  to  her  surprise  F austulus  had  of- 
fered, the  night  before,  to  ride  with  her,  and 
he  brought  with  him  a dozen  or  so  of  his  own 
men,  mounted  and  armed.  He  proved  quite  a 
pleasant  fellow-traveller,  with  interesting  little 
scraps  of  information  to  give  which  certainly 
beguiled  the  way.  Without  knowing  very 
much  of  anything,  he  knew  a little  about  al- 
most everything,  and  he  knew  exactly  how  to 
use  it.  He  could  make  a scrap  of  history  sound 
like  a scrap  of  gossip;  in  fact  he  only  cared  for 
history  as  it  lent  itself  to  such  purposes. 

As  they  drew  near  to  the  Porta  Prsenestina 
people  were  coming  out  of  the  church  in  the 
Empress  Helena’s  palace,  consecrated  some 
years  before  by  Pope  Sylvester  in  honour  of 
the  Holy  Cross.  Many  of  them  were  evidently 
persons  of  rank,  and  some  of  them  had  been 
pagans  until  quite  recently. 

Faustulus  knew  them  and  greeted  them  by 
name  with  great  amiability;  he  knew  it  would 

39 


40 


FAUSTULA 


be  wormwood  to  Sabina,  who  drew  back  in  her 
litter,  and  frowned  heavily. 

“It  is  really  very  kind  of  them  to  remember 
me,”  he  told  her.  “They  are  in  the  fashion. 
More  and  more  of  the  best  families  go  to  the 
churches  now.” 

He  knew  quite  well  that  his  sister  had  fre- 
quent tremors  lest  he,  who  certainly  did  not  care 
a farthing  for  the  gods,  should  go  over  to  the 
faith  that  was  become  Imperial.  It  amused 
him. 

Of  Christianity  he  knew  hardly  anything; 
what  he  did  know  repelled  him.  As  to  its  be- 
liefs he  was  as  indifferent  as  he  was  ignorant; 
but  he  had  an  instinctive  aversion  from  a moral 
code  which  he  knew  would  be  intolerable  to  him- 
self. 

“They  use  their  triumph,”  he  declared,  “with 
great  moderation.  Less  than  forty  years  ago 
Diocletian  was  persecuting  them,  and  now  they 
have  their  turn  they  do  not  even  bully  us.  It 
is  nine  years  since  the  Divine  Constantine  (I 
suppose  he  is  divine  now  he  is  dead)  ordered  all 
the  temples  to  be  closed.  They  are  no  more 
closed  than  the  churches.  The  Pope  has  never 
tried  to  force  it.” 

“He  would  not  dare,”  said  Sabina  angrily. 

“Oh,  I don’t  know.  Pope  Julius  would  dare 
pretty  much  . . . that’s  not  a bad  tomb  for  a 


FAUSTULA 


41 


baker,  is  it?  I think  he  was  a good  fellow;  you 
see  how  he  was  not  ashamed  of  his  baking:  all 
the  process  of  the  trade  shown  in  the  reliefs 
(except  the  mixing  of  chalk  with  the  flour).” 
A mile  and  a half  outside  the  gate  he  pointed 
out  the  tomb  of  the  Empress  Helena  which  Sa- 
bina glanced  at  sourly. 

“She  was  not  really  Augusta  at  all,”  she  pro- 
tested; “she  was  the  daughter  of  a tavern- 
keeper,  and  Maximian  made  Constantius  re- 
pudiate her  when  he  became  Csesar.” 

She  was  more  willing  to  admire  the  Palace  of 
the  Gordian  Emperors,  and  quite  ready  to  be- 
lieve that  there  were  two  hundred  marble  col- 
umns in  its  portico.  But  what  she  liked  best 
was  the  exquisite  view  of  her  own  Sabine  hills 
behind  it:  she  longed  for  home:  a very  few 
weeks  of  modern  Rome  sickened  her. 

When  Faustulus  said: 

“This  is  where  Camillus  overtook  the  Gauls 
laden  with  the  spoils  of  Rome,”  she  was  inter- 
ested, and  believed  firmly  when  he  added : 
“He  did  not  leave  a single  Gaul  alive  to  carry 
the  news  home.” 

But  she  was  cross  when  he  went  on:  “Per- 
haps that  was  why  the  Gauls  never  believed 
Camillus  had  routed  them  at  all.  You  should 
always  leave  some  of  the  other  side  alive  to  con- 
firm your  story.” 


42 


FAUSTULA 


When  he  pointed  away,  over  the  more  and 
more  wild  country  and  said: 

“There  is  Gabii — where  our  foster-uncles 
Romulus  and  Remus  were  sent  to  learn  Greek 
and  drill,”  she  believed  devoutly,  though  she 
doubted  whether  he  did. 

“Juno  had  a great  temple  there,”  he  went  on; 
“you  can  see  it  still.  I don’t  care  much  for 
her.  It  was  an  unfortunate  marriage.  You 
should  never  marry  your  sister — she’s  bound  to 
know  too  much  about  you.  Chelone  was  quite 
right  not  to  go  to  the  wedding.  And  if  I had 
been  Jupiter  I would  have  wanted  to  know  a 
good  deal  more  about  Yulcan  . . . smelling 
flowers  is  all  very  well.” 

As  Sabina  was,  or  pretended  to  be,  asleep,  he 
let  her  alone  till  they  came  to  the  place,  seven 
miles  further  on,  where  the  ancient  pavement 
was  so  splendidly  preserved,  that  he  insisted  on 
her  admiring  it.  As  the  place  was  somewhat 
wild,  however,  and  Sabina  had  a watchful  eye 
for  robbers,  her  attention  was  a little  distracted : 
perhaps  she  did  not  perceive  that  the  pavement 
here  was  very  different  from  what  it  had  been 
all  along  the  road.  To  the  right  and  left  steep 
cliffs  rose  up  sixty  or  seventy  feet  into  the  air, 
garlanded  with  trails  of  ivy  and  hyssop.  The 
road  was  getting  steeper  now  as  they  drew  near 
Prsene-ste. 


FAUSTULA 


43 


“Over  there,”  Faustulus  informed  his  sister 
pointing  to  the  left,  “is  Pedum.  Never  mind 
the  robbers — there  aren’t  any,  and,  if  there 
were,  they  would  not  trouble  us  with  all  these 
armed  fellows  of  mine.  Albius  Tibullus  lived 
there  and  had  a good  estate  there  (that  was 
why  Horace  liked  him,  not,  you  may  be  sure, 
because  he  was  a fellow-poet.  Horace  always 
liked  people  who  were  well-off ) . 

‘Albi,  nostrorum  sermonum  candide  judex 
Quid  nunc  te  dicam  facere  in  regione  Pedana/  ” 

quoted  Faustulus.  He  never  quoted  more 
than  a line  or  so ; anything  long  bored  him. 

“They  are  changing  the  old  name  now,”  he 
went  on,  “and  people  are  taking  to  call  the  old 
place  Gallicanum,  in  honour  of  Ovinius  Galli- 
canus,  whom  you  remember  as  City  Prefect  in 
Constantine’s  time.” 

It  annoyed  Sabina  to  be  reminded  of  Chris- 
tians holding  the  highest  offices  of  state:  and 
she  took  no  more  interest  in  the  place  where 
Horace’s  friend  had  lived. 

She  fell  into  a thoughtful  silence,  and  her 
brother  left  her  to  her  thoughts,  for,  though 
he  liked  to  torment  her,  he  never  wanted  to  bore 
anyone. 

It  was  very  quiet  and  the  wide  empty  spaces 
around  them  full  of  peace;  the  late  October 


44 


FAUSTULA 


sunshine  was  bright  and  happy,  but  not  hot; 
and  now  the  air  of  the  mountains  came  down 
to  meet  them  with  a brisk  welcome. 

But  Sabina  was  half -troubled : rejoiced  to 
escape  from  Rome,  and  certainly  not  much  sad- 
dened by  the  death  of  a sister-in-law  who  had 
disliked  her,  and  whom  Faustulus  seemed  to 
miss  so  little,  she  ought,  she  felt,  to  be  in  better 
spirits  as  she  drew  nearer  the  home  in  which 
all  her  interests  were  centred.  She  was  really 
troubling  herself  about  an  apprehension  that 
was  perfectly  groundless.  She  knew  her 
brother  to  be  wholly  without  religion,  and  for 
religion  she  had  a traditional  respect:  any  re- 
ligion would  make  him  more  respectable,  never- ^ 
theless  she  shrank  with  horror  from  the  dread 
that  he  would  become  a Christian.  As  far  as 
her  dislike  to  Christianity  was  logical  at  all,  it 
was  based  on  conservatism.  Romans  should 
believe  as  their  fathers — who  had  made  Rome 
the  greatest  power  on  earth — believed  before 
them;  and  Sabina  was  national  before  anything 
and  the  church  was  not  national : it  was  its  spe- 
cial claim  to  be  universal,  which  to  her  mind  was 
merely  international,  anti-national;  the  first 
Pope  had  been  a Hebrew  of  low  origin,  and 
numbers  of  his  successors  had,  she  heard,  been 
foreigners — Greeks,  Asiatics,  Africans,  Dal- 
matians ; it  was  intolerable  to  think  of  Romans 


FAUSTULA 


45 


of  noble  birth  professing  a religion  that  did  not 
form  a department  of  the  state,  but  arrogantly 
claimed  to  be  superior  to  it ; whose  head  might 
be,  and  often  was  not  a Roman  at  all ; a religion 
which  admitted  to  equal  rights  barbarians, 
slaves,  and  patricians.  The  great  offices  of  the 
State  religion  should  be  the  family  inheritance 
of  the  great  houses,  or  open  only  to  those  who 
belonged  to  great  houses.  For  all  she  knew 
the  Pope  might  be  the  son  of  a slave,  as  he  cer- 
tainly need  not  be  a Roman.  She  was  not  a 
cruel  person,  though  stern  and  severe;  she  did 
not  want  the  Christian  to  be  persecuted,  not 
put  to  death  at  all  events,  if  it  were  for  their 
tiresome  faith  alone;  but  they  should  not  be 
rebels,  and  they  should  conform;  if  the  gods 
had  been  good  enough  for  their  betters  they 
must  be  good  enough  f or  them.  And  there  had 
been  no  persecution  within  her  memory.  Dio- 
cletian’s had  come  to  an  end  just  about  the 
time  when  she  was  born : not  of  a lively  imagi- 
nation she  had  no  great  pity  for  suffering  she 
had  never  seen. 

Of  the  Pope’s  faith  she  knew,  if  anything, 
less  even  than  Faustulus ; and  of  the  Pope  him- 
self she  knew  nothing  at  all.  That  the  Popes 
had  been  charitable  to  the  poor  and  oppressed 
she  had  been  often  told,  but  she  was  not  greatly 
impressed.  No  doubt  they  were  crafty  fellows 


46 


FAUSTULA 


who  knew  how  to  court  mob-popularity;  Sa- 
bina would  not  admire  gifts  when  Greeks 
brought  them;  and  very  likely  the  poor  whom 
the  Popes  had  befriended  and  petted  were  a 
set  of  discontented  idle  slaves,  or  city  riff- 
raff. To  her  own  poor,  even  slaves,  up  near 
Olibanum  she  could  be  kind  and  generous, 
though  never  indulgent;  but  then  she  knew 
them,  and  their  poverty  was  under  her  nose. 
The  indigent  whom  she  did  not  know  were 
probably  worthless  creatures  and  ought  not  to 
be  encouraged;  it  only  made  them  poorer  and 
more  idle.  Besides  there  was  a measure  to  be 
observed;  Sabina  gave  freely  enough  out  of 
superfluities  that  she  could  not  miss;  and  rich 
people  ought  to  do  so;  it  even  made  their 
wealth  sweeter  to  themselves.  She  liked  to  feel 
her  slaves  were  warmly  clad  in  winter,  and  had 
enough  to  eat;  her  own  excellent  clothing  sat 
the  more  snugly  on  her  back,  and  her  own  well- 
spread  table  was  the  more  enjoyable.  But  the 
Pope  and  his  Christians  gave  away  what  they 
could  not  spare;  that  was  wrong:  some,  she 
understood,  had  sold  off  all  they  had,  lands  and 
palaces,  furniture  and  plate,  costly  tapestries 
and  rich  jewels,  and  given  all  the  money  to  the 
poor  at  once — that  was  folly.  What  would 
they  have  left  to  give  another  year?  Sabina 
did  not  admire  such  wasteful  charity  at  all;  it 


FAUSTULA 


47 


was  worse  in  some  ways  than  callous  selfishness 
and  indifference.  Selfishness  and  indifference 
did  not,  at  all  events,  ruin  noble  families  and 
bring  them  to  nothing.  Above  all  it  was  the 
duty  of  the  great  houses  to  hand  on  their  great- 
ness; how  could  that  be  done  if  the  present 
heads  sold  off  farms  and  estates,  ancestral  pal- 
aces and  heirlooms,  and  squandered  away  the 
money  on  a rabble  of  good-for-nothing  idlers? 
With  such  doings  there  would  soon  be  no  nobil- 
ity at  all. 

Sabina  had  an  idea  that  once  a person  of 
rank  and  wealth  became  a member  of  the 
Church  he  was  done  for.  The  Pope  was  his 
master,  and  all  he  had  was  liable  to  be  swept 
into  the  unthrifty  coffers  of  the  Church.  He 
himself  would  be  inveigled  into  becoming  a 
priest,  no  more  considered  than  the  next  priest 
who  might  be  the  son  of  a freedman  or  a cob- 
bler, and  there  would  be  an  end  of  a family 
that  had  lasted  since  Romulus.  Scamp  as  her 
brother  was  she  could  not  wish  him  to  become 
religious  at  such  a price  as  that;  why  could 
not  he  be  religious,  moderately  religious,  in 
the  old  way?  A quite  easy  respectability  was 
all  she  desired  for  him.  In  a man  of  rank 
nothing  more  was  required.  The  old  religion 
had  turned  out  good  citizens  (what  nation  had 
ever  produced  their  equal?),  good  soldiers, 


48 


FAUSTULA 


great  statesmen,  all  the  poets  whom  Faustulus 
so  much  admired,  all  the  Romans,  in  fact: 
what  could  anyone  want  more?  All  the  reli- 
gion her  brother  needed  could  be  found  in  that 
of  the  gods — a religion  that  had  made  Ro- 
man life  orderly  and  discreet,  and  had  made 
the  Romans  the  greatest  people  on  earth. 
The  Pope’s  religion  was  too  much  of  a good 
thing,  it  was  too  intimate.  It  interfered  in 
daily  life,  in  family  life;  there  was,  she  was 
sure,  no  privacy  in  it.  Christian  priests  were 
meddlesome;  they  told  you  what  your  duty 
was,  which  you  ought  to  know  for  yourself, 
and  must  know  better  than  they  could  tell  you, 
seeing  they  were  apt  to  be  common  fellows 
without  any  knowledge  of  the  inner  lives  of 
nobles ; and  they  were  grasping,  ready  to 
pounce  on  the  amenities  and  refinements  of 
your  station,  and  denounce  them  as  extrav- 
agances which  you  should  curtail  so  as  to  have 
more  to  waste  on  the  poor  and  the  churches. 
Sabina  liked  a well-endowed  national  worship 
independent  of  such  aggressions  on  your 
pocket.  She  could  make  handsome  offerings 
to  temples,  people  in  her  rank  had  always  been 
glad  to  do  so,  but  they  liked  to  do  it  of  their 
own  accord  and  at  their  own  convenience;  not 
yielding  to  a claim,  but  satisfying  their  own 
bountiful  instincts.  In  this  also  the  Chris- 


FAUSTULA 


49 


tians  (egged  on  by  the  Pope)  were  immod- 
erate. She  knew  of  women  who  had  stripped 
themselves  of  every  jewel,  family  jewels  too, 
and  given  them  to  adorn  a church,  or  a vessel 
used  in  the  outlandish,  superstitious  ceremonies 
of  the  Christian  mysteries.  Of  course  many 
pagan  nobles  had  squandered  family  jewels 
on  very  reprehensible  characters,  who  had  not 
belonged  to  their  families,  but  they  were 
young  and  foolish,  or  if  not  young  they  were 
old  enough  to  have  known  better.  Sabina  did 
not  defend  them,  young  or  old;  but  two 
wrongs  do  not  make  a right,  and  in  any  case 
gems  thus  alienated  had  often  been  brought 
back — the  creatures  who  got  them  had  some- 
times hardly  known  their  value,  and  had  been 
ready  to  sell  them  again  for  a tithe  of  their 
real  value.  At  that  moment  she  had  jewels 
that  had  belonged  for  generations  to  the  Faus- 
tuli  which  her  father  never  left  her;  her 
brother  had  not  the  least  idea  they  were  in  her 
possession;  he  had  given  them  to  all  sorts  of 
people  and  she  had  heard  of  their  whereabouts 
and  had  got  them  back  for  absurdly  small 
sums.  Once  in  a church  they  would  have  been 
lost  irretrievably. 

Almost  worse  than  all  else  she  understood 
that  the  Pope’s  Christians  confessed  their  sins 
to  his  priests.  That  was  intolerable.  Well- 


50 


FAUSTULA 


conducted  people  should  have  nothing  to  con- 
fess; if  they  had  they  should  keep  it  to  them- 
selves. There  was  a horrible  want  of  dignity 
and  reticence  in  raking  out  your  cess-pools  for 
other  people  to  know  what  was  in  them.  It 
must  destroy  all  self-respect.  Who  could 
stand  it?  Why  even  she  herself  when  she  was 
very  young — poof!  the  indelicacy  of  the  idea 
shocked  her. 


CHAPTER  Y 


Faustula  was  six  years  old  when  she  first 
saw  her  father:  by  that  time  he  could  not 
positively  remember  whether  he  had  ever  seen 
her  or  no:  but  he  gave  himself  the  benefit  of 
the  doubt  (as  he  was  always  ready  to  do  even 
in  the  case  of  other  people)  and  concluded  that 
he  had.  Sabina,  on  the  other  hand,  recollected 
very  well  that  he  had  not  asked  to  see  the  baby 
when  he  went  back  to  Rome  the  day  after  he 
had  politely  escorted  his  sister  home. 

Very  soon  afterwards  he  had  written  to  say 
he  was  about  to  travel,  and  was  starting  im- 
mediately. He  did  not  come  to  say  good-bye, 
and  he  did  not  mention  where  he  was  going, 
probably  because  he  did  not  know.  The  big 
house  in  Rome  was  shut  up  and  Sabina 
thought  that  a good  thing:  she  knew  her 
brother  was  unlikely  to  go  about  with  a ret- 
inue, and  he  would  spend  less  money  than  if 
he  stayed  at  home  and  lived  as  he  had  been 
living  since  his  marriage.  She  thought,  too, 
that  he  would  be  too  much  occupied  with  the 
change  and  movement  of  travel  to  become  a 
Christian. 

Faustula  throve  in  the  pure  fresh  air  of  the 

51 


52 


FAUSTULA 


hills,  and,  from  a very  delicate  baby,  she  be- 
came a healthy  vigorous  child.  Sabina  was  as 
good  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  her  own  daugh- 
ter, and  as  strict.  She  kept  a watchful  eye 
over  her  food,  allowed  no  one  to  doctor  her 
but  herself,  and  taught  her  to  demean  herself 
as  became  her  name  and  high  station.  Clodia 
was  submissive  and  silent,  the  two  qualities 
which  Sabina  most  valued  in  a woman  in  her 
position,  and  was  seldom  brought  to  task:  if 
she  spoiled  her  foster-child  she  contrived  to  do 
it  so  that  the  lady  did  not  suspect  it:  if  Faus- 
tula  loved  Clodia  better  than  her  aunt  it  never 
occurred  to  Sabina.  Clodia  was  only  a slave, 
and  the  wealthy,  busy  lady  thought  about  her 
very  little:  she  had  other  things  to  occupy  her 
active,  practical  mind. 

As  for  the  child  she  was  obedient,  docile,  and 
respectful,  not  given  to  chatter,  not  pert,  and 
seemed  fully  aware  of  her  aunt’s  importance. 
Her  manner,  even  as  a very  small  girl,  was 
quiet  and  dignified,  which  Sabina  liked  much 
better  than  boisterous  affection.  Her  aunt 
had  never  been  effusive  herself,  and  had  not 
been  given  to  displays  of  fondness  for  her  own 
mother,  of  whom  she  had  not  been  accustomed 
to  see  much.  Even  if  she  had  perceived  that 
Faustula  showed  more  tenderness  for  Clodia 
than  for  her  aunt  she  would  hardly  have  been 


FAUSTULA 


53 


jealous,  though  she  might  have  thought  it  un- 
dignified: but  a shy  instinct  taught  the  tiny 
child  to  keep  the  little  endearments  she  show- 
ered on  her  nurse  for  occasions  when  they  two 
were  alone. 

Of  her  father  Faustula  scarcely  heard.  It 
was  very  rarely  Sabina  had  anything  to  tell 
of  him,  and  Clodia  never  mentioned  his  name: 
by  the  time  she  was  able  to  talk  to  Tatius  he 
had  very  little  to  say  on  the  subject.  Faustu- 
lus  had  not  taken  much  notice  of  him.  As  a 
very  small  boy,  Tatius  had  been  rather  ugly 
and  awkward,  with  a slight  stammer  which 
Faustulus  had  mimicked,  and  a heavy  manner : 
he  did  not  appear  to  inherit  any  of  his  father’s 
trivial  cleverness,  and  very  rarely  laughed. 
On  the  whole  he  had  been  best  pleased  when 
left  unnoticed,  and  Faustulus  was  ready 
enough  to  ignore  him  since  he  seemed  to  like 
it.  Tatius  was  not,  however,  stupid.  He  had 
plenty  of  plain  intelligence  and  imbibed  cer- 
tain ideas  quite  readily:  for  instance  he  saw 
that  Sabina  regarded  him  as  being  of  more 
importance  than  his  sister,  and  that  this  was 
because  he  was  a boy  and  would  be  the  head 
of  their  ancient  house.  He  had  no  objection, 
and  was  willing  to  learn  to  be  important.  Of 
course  he  was  much  older  than  Faustula,  and 
was  nine  years  of  age  by  the  time  she  was 


54 


FAUSTULA 


three:  even  when  Faustula  was  four  she  did 
not  understand  much  about  the  dignity  of  be- 
ing descended  from  the  foster-father  of 
Romulus:  but  Tatius  was  ten  and  understood 
very  well.  He  did  not  quite  so  easily  remem- 
ber that  Faustula  was  also  descended  from  the 
historic  shepherd,  though  he  never  forgot  that 
Sabina  was. 

Tatius  was  early  alive  to  the  idea  that  it  be- 
hooved him  not  to  let  his  illustrious  name  be 
forgotten:  it  would  be  proper  that  he  should 
distinguish  himself : and  the  army  would  be 
the  best  way.  One  need  not  be,  he  imagined, 
very  learned  in  bookish  matters,  to  become  a 
noted  general.  And  he  gathered  from  Sa- 
bina, while  still  a small  boy,  that  in  other  de- 
partments of  state  competition  with  Christians 
would  be  more  likely  to  stand  in  his  way.  He 
disliked  the  Christians  most  obediently,  as  be- 
came the  future  head  of  the  house  of  Faustu- 
lus. 

Sabina,  who  had  brought  him  to  her  house 
as  a temporary  measure,  and  under  protest 
that  he  could  not  stay  with  her,  quite  forgot 
that  the  time  was  come  for  him  to  go  away. 
She  really  liked  him  better  than  Faustula  : and, 
as  his  father  was  abroad,  and  not  easy  to  com- 
municate with,  since  he  always  almost  men- 
tioned that  he  was  just  about  to  leave  the  place 


FAUSTULA 


55 


from  which  he  wrote,  the  moment  never 
seemed  to  arrive  for  Tatius  to  go.  She  did 
not  spoil  him  any  more  than  his  sister,  but  she 
saw  much  more  of  him:  he  was  older  and  he 
had  no  nurse.  As  she  approved  of  Faustula 
on  the  whole,  it  did  not  occur  to  Sabina  that 
she  was  not  particularly  fond  of  her:  the  busy 
practical  woman  was  not  given  to  such  consid- 
erations. She  did  her  duty  by  the  child  and 
the  child  seemed  dutiful  in  return:  that  was 
what  mattered.  Nor  had  she  any  actual  ten- 
derness for  the  boy  to  suggest  a contrast:  she 
had  never  been  tender  to  anybody,  and  Tatius 
was  not  aware  of  the  deficiency.  He  was  not 
tender  either,  and  he  felt  himself  the  favourite, 
which  was  more  to  the  purpose.  From  his 
mother  he  inherited  a jealous  disposition — long 
ago  he  had  been  jealous  of  Flavia  whom  his 
father  had  teased  and  played  with — and  he 
would  have  been  jealous  of  Faustula  had  he 
not  perceived  that,  so  far  as  his  aunt  was  con- 
cerned, there  was  not  the  least  occasion.  That 
Clodia  loved  his  sister  passionately  and  was  in- 
different to  him,  he  saw,  but  it  did  not  trouble 
him:  Clodia  was  only  a slave:  he  merely  dis- 
liked her.  On  the  rare  occasions  when  Faus- 
tula’s  foster-mother  received  a rebuke  from 
Sabina  it  was  because  Tatius  had  told  tales. 
Faustula  knew  this  very  well. 


56 


FAUSTULA 


To  his  sister  the  boy  was  as  yet  kind  enough : 
he  only  tried  to  treat  her  as  his  father  had 
treated  him:  but  his  attempts  to  irritate  her 
were  rather  clumsy.  Now  and  then  he  would 
detect  in  her  speech  some  flaw  of  Sabine  dia- 
lect, and  would  mimic  her  mistakes. 

“D-d-did  I really  ta-ta-talk  like  that?”  she 
would  reply  innocently.  She  did  not  stammer 
in  the  least  herself. 

Had  he  known  that  Faustula  was  very  much 
better  looking  than  himself  he  would  have  been 
more  jealous.  But  he  knew  that  he  had  his 
father’s  features  and  was  aware  that  Faustulus 
had  been  esteemed  handsome;  Sabina  even 
mentioned  it.  He  could  not  be  expected  to 
know  that  the  charm  of  his  father’s  appearance 
had  been  chiefly  due  to  his  vivacious  air  of  clev- 
erness and  amiability,  to  his  beautiful  hair  and 
eyes,  and  his  brilliant  colouring.  Tatius  had 
a thick,  pallid  skin,  shallowish  black  eyes  like 
Accia’s,  and  coarse  straight  hair  like  a peas- 
ant’s: his  figure  was  thick  and  lumpish. 

Faustula  had  not  been  a pretty  baby,  which 
Tatius  recollected  his  aunt  remarking  with  sur- 
prise, for  she  herself,  it  appeared,  had  been  a 
lovely  infant. 

“Our  family  has  always  been  good-looking,” 
she  declared  complacently;  and  Tatius  natu- 
rally remembered  that  he  belonged  to  it.  “But 


FAUSTULA  57 

Faustula  is  a weazened,  queer-looking  little 
thing.” 

He  never  forgot  this,  and,  as  Sabina  made 
no  later  pronouncements  on  the  subject,  he 
looked  upon  it  as  settled  that  his  sister  was  a 
plain  child.  In  reality  she  outgrew  her  plain- 
ness very  early,  and  became  a lovely  little  girl. 
She  had  her  father’s  deep-grey  eyes,  and  curly 
bronze-brown  hair,  her  features  were  much 
better,  and  her  skin,  like  his,  was  clear  and  f air. 
She  had  not  his  liveliness  of  expression,  but 
her  face  was  clever,  and  the  look  of  high  breed- 
ing on  which  Faustulus  piqued  himself  was 
more  than  reproduced  in  his  daughter.  If  the 
little  girl’s  expression  was  graver  than  her 
father’s  it  was  also  nobler,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing heavy  or  sombre  about  it.  Faustulus  was 
never  more  than  attractive:  his  child  was  des- 
tined to  be  beautiful. 


CHAPTER  VI 


As  was  said  at  the  beginning  of  the  last 
chapter  Faustula  never  saw  her  father 
till  she  was  six  years  old. 

When  he  wrote  from  Rome  to  say  he  had 
returned,  and  would  come  out  to  visit  his  sis- 
ter very  soon,  Sabina  was  not  quite  as  glad 
as  she  would  have  supposed  natural.  She  had 
got  on  for  six  years  very  well  without  seeing 
him,  or  often  hearing  from  him,  and  she  had 
no  idea  that  he  was  even  in  Italy.  Now  it 
would  be  proper  for  Tatius  to  go  away,  and 
she  could  really  have  spared  his  sister  much 
better.  The  twelve-year-old  boy,  who  was  not 
clever,  was  precocious  in  his  way,  and  was  in- 
terested in  the  matters  which  Sabina  cared 
about ; Faustula  was  too  little. 

Tatius  was  quite  sharp  enough  to  see  that 
wealth  and  the  management  of  wealth  were 
topics  of  unfailing  import;  the  greatness  of  the 
family  of  which  he  had  almost  grown  to  think 
himself  already  the  head,  was  also  a subject 
for  continual  meditation  and  discussion.  He 
knew  the  family  pedigree  as  well  as  Sabina 
herself,  and  believed  as  devoutly  in  the  first 

58 


FAUSTULA 


59 


centuries  of  it,  which  Faustulus  laughed  at, 
as  in  its  later  ramifications.  As  he  and  Sa- 
bina never  talked  about  the  pedigrees  of  other 
families,  they  both  forgot  that  other  people 
might  claim  to  have  descents  as  ancient  and 
more  illustrious  than  their  own. 

Tatius  was  not  particularly  pleased  to  think 
of  his  father’s  return.  He  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  care  much  for  him,  and  he  had  prac- 
tically forgotten  his  existence;  such  hazy  recol- 
lections as  the  boy  still  had  of  his  father,  who 
had  laughed  at  him,  were  not  calculated  to  en- 
dear his  memory  to  a lad  who  thought  very 
comfortably  of  himself.  One  need  not  be 
specially  clever  to  have  wonderfully  correct 
instincts  of  self-love,  and  Tatius  had  an  un- 
easy foreboding  that  Faustulus  would  make 
game  of  him,  and  perhaps  snub  him. 

The  boy  toadied  his  aunt,  and  a toady  gets 
on  much  better  without  careless,  keen-eyed 
witnesses.  Without  intending  it,  too,  Sabina 
had  let  her  nephew  perceive  that  her  brother 
was  not  all  the  head  of  the  Faustuli  should 
be.  Tatius  was  sure  that  he  ought  to  disap- 
prove of  his  father,  and  it  was  tiresome  to  be 
seen  through  and  laughed  at  by  people  who 
live  in  glass  houses. 

The  old  state  of  tilings  had  suited  Tatius 


60 


FAUSTULA 


very  well,  as  it  had  suited  his  aunt,  and  they 
neither  of  them  were  really  pleased  to  think 
it  was  about  to  be  changed.  The  boy  had 
lived  so  long,  and  on  such  intimate  terms,  with 
the  elderly  widow  that  he  was  an  old  maid,  at 
twelve,  himself.  The  easy  affluent  life  of  the 
big  country-house  was  altogether  to  his  taste; 
he  felt,  quite  truly,  that  he  should  never  be 
so  considerable  a person  anywhere  else,  and 
he  felt  glad  when  Sabina  remarked  that  now 
it  would  be  time  for  him  to  begin  his  regular 
training  for  the  army. 

“Your  father  has  been  away  a long  time,” 
she  observed. 

“Six  years!”  Tatius  reminded  her,  as  if  the 
long  absence  was  hardly  to  his  parent’s  credit 
— as  perhaps  it  was  not.  Tatius  had  the  just- 
est  ideas  of  other  people’s  duties. 

“Yes.  Six  years.  I only  supposed  he 
would  leave  you  here  a year  or  two.  I ex- 
plained that  then  it  would  be  time  for  you  to 
begin  a better  education  than  you  could  get 
here.” 

“You  have  thought  much  more  about  my 
education  than  he  has.” 

“I  always  do  think  of  things.  As  he  was 
away  there  was  no  one  else  to  think  about  it. 
I daresay  you  have  learned  as  much  as  other 
boys  of  your  age.” 


FAUSTULA 


61 


Tatius  looked  as  if  he  was  sure  of  it;  which 
indeed  he  was.  As  he  knew  very  little  about 
other  boys  of  his  rank  it  was  not  his  fault  if 
he  was  wrong.  Perhaps  he  was  not  wrong. 
Maltro  was  a very  clever  man,  and  there  had 
been  other  teachers  as  well.  If  home-bred 
boys  have  sometimes  homely  wits  it  is  not  al- 
ways because  they  have  been  badly  taught. 

Very  likely  if  Tatius  had  spent  among  other 
pagan  boys  in  Rome  the  years  that  had  been 
so  comfortably  passed  at  Olibanum,  he  might 
have  known  a great  many  things,  the  ignorance 
of  which  was  no  loss ; even  as  it  was  he  was  not 
quite  so  simple  as  Sabina  took  for  granted; 
among  the  slaves  of  the  big  household  there 
were  lads  of  his  own  age  and  a little  older,  and 
for  lack  of  other  company  he  would  mix  with 
them  sometimes,  though  less  than  many  boys 
so  placed  would  have  done,  for  he  thought 
much  of  his  dignity,  and  detested  all  manner 
of  games. 

When  Faustulus  arrived  his  sister  could  not 
perceive  that  he  had  grown  any  older ; till  they 
actually  met  it  had  seemed  to  her  an  enormous 
time  since  they  parted;  the  moment  they  were 
together  it  seemed  as  though  they  had  seen  one 
another  quite  lately. 

“You  are  not  in  the  least  changed,”  she  as- 
sured him. 


62 


FAUSTULA 


“Nor  are  you,”  he  declared.  (“She  looks 
fifty  at  least,”  he  told  himself.) 

“Oh,  when  one  becomes  middle-aged  early  in 
life  one  does  not  change  any  more  for  a long 
time.  I became  middle-aged  when  I became 
a widow.” 

“You  are  a widow  still ” 

“Of  course!  I never  intended  to  be  any- 
thing else.” 

“Then  you  were  quite  right  to  hide  yourself 
up  here  among  the  mountains.  It  is  very  hard 
to  go  on  being  a handsome  widow  with  a good 
income  in  Rome.” 

Sabina  did  not  object  to  the  idea  that  her 
isolation  alone  had  kept  eager  suitors  at  bay; 
she  was  forty -three  and  had  never  been  young 
of  her  age.  She  smiled  benignantly  and  told 
him  she  was  glad  that  he  also  had  remained  un- 
married. He  smiled,  too,  but  not  quite  so 
freely  as  usual,  and  she  instantly  had  suspi- 
cions. 

“Will  Flavia  come  and  live  with  you  now?” 
she  asked. 

“Not  at  present.  Our  ex-Vestal  Domitia 
did  not  marry,  you  see,  and  Flavia  is  more 
company  for  her  now  than  at  first.  Of  course 
you  have  seen  her?” 

“Not  often.  Domitia  does  not  like  our  life 
here,  and  only  brought  Flavia  out  to  see  her 


FAUSTULA 


63 


brother  and  sister  once  or  twice.  You  will 
find  Tatius  much  improved.” 

Faustulus  looked  as  if  that  might  be  easily 
possible. 

“He  was  a dull  child  and  not  good-tem- 
pered,” he  observed  coolly. 

“He  is  not  at  all  dull  now.  He  is  an  intel- 
ligent boy.  Perhaps  you  mistook  his  reserve 
for  dullness.” 

“Very  likely.” 

“And  he  is  not  a bad-tempered  boy.  I do 
not  allow  those  about  me  to  have  tempers ; but 
there  has  been  nothing  of  the  sort  to  correct  in 
Tatius.  You  shall  see  him.” 

Faustulus  did  not  see  that  there  was  any 
hurry ; he  had  got  on  quite  well  without  seeing 
his  son  for  six  years,  and  could  easily  have 
waited  an  hour  or  so  longer.  But  Sabina  had 
certain  orders  to  give,  and  went  off  to  find  her 
nephew  at  the  same  time. 

She  had  hardly  left  the  room  by  one  door 
before  Tatius  himself  entered  it  by  another. 
He  stood  still  on  seeing  his  father  and  waited 
to  be  spoken  to.  He  was  surprised  to  think 
what  a young  man  Faustulus  appeared.  It 
would  evidently  be  a good  while  before  he  him- 
self would  be  head  of  the  family. 

“So  you  are  Tatius,”  his  father  said,  walk- 
ing across  the  room  to  him.  His  movements 


64 


FAUSTULA 


were  always  easy  and  graceful,  which  his  son 
at  once  associated,  somehow,  with  his  defective 
character.  He  himself  moved  forward,  not  at 
all  gracefully,  and  made  a rather  awkward 
obeisance.  Of  course  his  father  called  him 
Tatius,  by  which  name  he  had  always  been 
known,  but  he  reminded  himself  that  he  was 
Titus  Tatius  Faustulus. 

(“As  thick  and  lumpy  as  ever,”  thought 
Faustulus;  “he  walks  with  his  shoulders  like  a 
porter.”) 

“Do  you  remember  me?”  he  asked. 

“Yes,  now.” 

Faustulus  laughed. 

“You  do  not  find  me  grown!” 

His  son  thought  this  silly,  and  though  he 
laughed,  too,  his  father  understood  perfectly. 

“You  are  quite  right,”  he  remarked  cheer- 
fully. “I  am  not  so  wise  as  Sabina.  You  had 
much  better  copy  her;  you  will  find  it  easier 
than  being  foolish  like  me.” 

It  seemed  quite  obvious  to  Tatius  that  his 
father  was  foolish;  and  he  did  not  believe  this 
was  the  way  in  which  a noble  Roman  should 
converse  with  his  son.  He  stared  a little,  then 
remembered  that  to  do  so  was  ill-bred,  and 
looked  at  a painting  of  Mercury  on  the  wall 
and  wondered  how  he  could  fly  straight  with  a 
wing  only  on  one  heel. 


FAUSTULA 


65 


“He  never  did  fly  straight,  his  ways  were 
devious  in  the  extreme,”  observed  Faustulus, 
pleased  to  perceive  that  his  son  was  startled  at 
the  care  with  which  he  followed  his  thoughts. 

“Yes,  I always  shall  know  exactly  what  you 
are  thinking  of.  That’s  another  difference 
between  me  and  Sabina,”  Faustulus  declared 
sweetly. 

Tatius  reddened  at  once.  If  his  father  had 
accused  him  flatly  of  toadying  his  aunt,  and 
told  him  that  his  ways  of  doing  so  were  as 
transparent  as  air,  he  could  not  have  looked 
more  guilty.  Faustulus  found  him  quite  en- 
tertaining. 

* “Your  aunt  said  I should  find  you  im- 
proved,” he  remarked  with  his  airy  smile. 
“And  she  was  quite  right.  You  are  more 
amusing.” 

Tatius  knew  well  that  he  was  not  really  re- 
ceiving a compliment.  He  was  not  a coward 
at  any  rate,  and  he  said  angrily:  “I  knew 

you  would  laugh  at  me.” 

His  father  was  not  at  all  annoyed. 

“You  are  not  very  glad  I have  come  back,” 
he  said,  watching  the  dark  flush  throbbing  in 
his  son’s  thick  skin.  Tatius  held  his  tongue. 

“There’s  no  reason  on  earth  why  you  should 
be  glad.” 

“S-Sabina,”  the  lad  began,  but  his  lips  were 


66  FAUSTULA 

dry  and  the  words  he  wanted  would  not  come 
readily. 

“Well?  S-S-S-Sabina?” 

“She  does  not  mock  children.” 

“I  did  not  know  you  were  more  than  one 
child.  By  the  way,  where  is  Faustula?” 

“With  Clodia,  I suppose.  Shall  I go  and 
fetch  her?” 

“Yes,  if  you  like.” 

And  the  boy  went  willingly.  Outside  the 
room  he  made  a very  ugly  face,  and  shook 
his  round  head  sharply  to  the  right.  He  was 
quite  determined  to  hate  his  father.  Faustu- 
lus  had  not  the  least  intention  of  hating  him; 
he  was  not  specially  fond  of  people  in  general 
but  he  had  not  many  strong  dislikes.  He  was 
wondering  whether  the  boy  would  come  back 
with  his  sister  or  send  her  with  Clodia. 

Clodia  did  not  come,  but  sent  the  child  with 
her  brother.  Sabina  returned  a moment  after- 
wards. 

“I  have  taken  good  care  of  her,”  she  said, 
“she  was  a puny,  sickly  baby.  At  first  I 
doubted  if  we  should  rear  her.  You  see  she 
is  quite  healthy  now.” 

Faustulus  saw  that  she  was  much  more  than 
healthy.  He  perceived  at  once  that  she  had 
more  beauty  than  either  Accia  or  he  had  ever 
had.  She  was  tall  of  her  age,  and  slim,  but 


FAUSTULA 


67 


not  in  the  least  lean  or  scraggy,  like  her  aunt, 
whom  indeed  she  did  not  resemble  in  any  way. 
Her  limbs  moved  with  a delightful  natural 
grace,  and  her  lovely  eyes  were  full  of  a grave 
unabashed  interest. 

'‘Well,  Faustula!”  said  the  father,  taking 
her  pretty  hands  into  his  own  and  smiling. 

It  was  not  much.  But  Tatius  was  jealous 
at  once.  His  father  had  smiled  at  him,  too, 
but  there  was  a great  diff  erence. 

The  little  girl’s  full  lips  parted  in  an  an- 
swering smile  and  she  lifted  them  to  her 
father’s  to  kiss.  Perhaps  that  was  the  purest, 
sweetest  kiss  Faustulus  had  ever  given  or  re- 
ceived. He  sat  down  and  held  her  on  his  knee ; 
she  looked  round  as  if  for  her  brother,  but  the 
boy  drew  away,  towards  his  aunt,  and  indeed 
his  father  was  not  thinking  of  him. 

Tatius  knew  at  last  that  his  sister  was  beau- 
tiful; whereas  their  father  thought  him  un- 
gainly and  ugly.  He  had  never  disliked 
Faustula  before:  she  was  only  a girl  and  he 
had  merely  ignored  her. 

Faustulus  was  devoted  to  beauty;  whether 
in  art  or  nature,  it  never  escaped  him.  The 
loveliness  of  his  child  could  no  more  be  lost 
on  him  than  if  it  had  been  the  loveliness  of  a 
flower.  That  was  all. 

(“You  didn’t  learn  your  grace  and  beauty 


68 


FAUSTULA 


from  Sabina,”  he  thought.  “Tatius  has 
learned  all  she  had  to  teach.”)  Then  aloud : 
“Accia  would  have  been  jealous  of  her,”  he 
said  over  the  child’s  head  to  her  justly  scanda- 
lized aunt.  “Accia  would  only  keep  kittens 
that  were  too  ugly  for  me  to  make  much  of.” 
“Faustulus!”  expostulated  Sabina. 

And  Tatius  at  once  decided  that  his  mother, 
whom  he  had  comfortably  forgotten  ever  since 
her  death,  had  had  much  to  complain  of.  He 
took  her  part  fiercely. 


CHAPTER  VII 


Faustulus  could  not  very  well  go  back  to 
Rome  on  the  next  day,  but  he  went  on 
the  day  after  that,  and  Sabina  was  not  sorry 
though  she  thought  he  ought  to  have  stayed 
longer. 

The  truth  was  they  could  not  get  on  to- 
gether. She  tried  too  hard.  If  she  had  left 
him  more  alone  he  would  not  have  much 
minded  a few  days  of  the  quiet  country  life; 
but,  after  so  long  a separation,  she  thought  it 
necessary  to  treat  her  brother  as  an  important 
visitor,  and  gave  up  almost  all  her  time  to 
him.  She  sacrificed  her  usual  employments 
and  sat  with  him  in  idle  state.  Conversation 
was  not  her  strong  point,  and  Faustulus  did 
not  care  to  hear  about  her  thriving  property 
— Tatius,  she  felt,  would  have  made  a better 
listener.  Nor  was  she  much  interested  in  his 
travels. 

By  way  of  giving  him  company  she  made 
him  go  with  her  to  visit  some  neighbours  who 
had  not  long  come  to  live  on  their  Sabine  es- 
tates. 

“They  are  Christians,”  she  explained  apolo- 
getically, “but  of  very  good  family:  one  need 

^69 


70 


FAUSTULA 


not  see  much  of  them,  but  it  would  not  look 
well  to  treat  them  uncivilly.” 

“Who  are  they?” 

“There  is  a widow,  Melania;  her  husband 
was  Acilius  Glabrio — the  Acilii  have  been 
Christians  since  Domitian’s  time,  and  of 
course  they  are  of  the  best  blood  in  Rome.  I 
do  not  remember  to  have  heard  who  Melania 
was;  the  marriage  took  place  long  after  my 
own,  when  I was  no  longer  in  Rome.  Acilius 
Glabrio  died  less  than  a year  ago,  and  she  has 
come  to  live  on  a large  property  of  his  here. 
She  has  children  who  must  be  quite  young.” 

Faustulus  did  not  much  care  about  the  visit, 
but  he  accompanied  his  sister,  who  went  in 
some  state.  The  two  houses  were  some  three 
miles  apart  and  not  within  sight  of  each  other. 
Sabina’s  castle  crowned  a spur  of  the  moun- 
tain overhanging  the  little  town  of  Olibanum, 
which  was  chiefly  occupied  by  her  own  slaves; 
the  castle  of  the  Acilii  stood  much  higher 
among  the  hills,  but  was  hidden  by  an  inter- 
vening ridge.  It  had  also  a village  near  it, 
whose  inhabitants  were  mostly  Christian  like 
their  masters. 

Between  the  two  places  there  was  a pretty 
good  road,  and  Faustulus  enjoyed  its  beauties. 
Sometimes  it  hung  on  the  hill-side  like  a ter- 
race, with  the  deep,  wooded  valley  falling  away 


FAUSTULA 


71 


from  it  on  one  side,  and  bare  peak  or  ridge  of 
barren  mountain  rising  abruptly  on  the  other. 
As  they  drew  near  to  Civitellum  it  mounted 
steeply. 

The  house  of  the  Acilii  stood  on  higher 
ground  than  the  village,  on  a kind  of  plateau 
from  which  the  mountain  dropped  hundreds 
of  feet  into  an  enormous  amphitheatre,  miles 
across,  rimmed  with  high  hills;  far  away  on 
the  other  side  was  Sublaqueum,  where  Nero 
had  made  his  lakes  and  his  villa. 

“In  spite  of  its  modern  barbarous  name/’ 
said  Faustulus,  “there  must  have  been  a town 
here  in  the  days  of  the  Pelasgi,”  and  he  made 
Sabina  look  at  the  remains  of  cyclopean  wall, 
which  seemed  to  grow  out  of  the  precipitous 
rock,  and  to  be  a continuation  of  it. 

Sabina  did  not  care  much  about  the  Pelasgi ; 
her  interest  did  not  go  farther  back  than  the 
Sabines.  It  was  her  private  belief  (shared  by 
Tatius)  that  the  Faustuli  were  a Sabine  fam- 
ily. But  she  perceived  that  there  was  a new 
church  with  a cross  on  it,  and  saw  no  signs  of 
a temple:  however,  the  Acilii  were  Christians, 
and  people’s  slaves  were  naturally  of  the  re- 
ligion of  their  masters;  for  that  matter  it  could 
not  greatly  signify  what  slaves  thought  they 
believed ; they  had  to  hold  their  tongues. 

The  road  to  the  House  of  the  Acilii 


FATJSTULA 


branched  off  near  the  gate  of  the  village,  which 
had  considered  itself  a city  once:  it  passed  be- 
tween two  fine  statues,  of  heroic  size,  mounted 
on  plain  pedestals  without  inscriptions. 

“Hercules  and  Mars,”  said  Faustulus;  “no 
doubt  they  were  removed  from  a closed  tem- 
ple.” 

Sabina  looked  irate. 

“How  dared  they  close  it?”  she  exclaimed 
sourly. 

“Perhaps  there  was  no  one  to  go  to  it.  If 
all  their  people  were  Christians  I suppose  the 
Acilii  thought  the  statues  might  as  well  serve 
as  ornaments.  In  old  days,  when  there  would 
be  fear  of  their  being  worshipped,  I dare- 
say the  Acilii  would  rather  have  broken  them 
up.” 

“What  sacrilege!” 

“Of  course.  It  is  odd  the  gods  ever  stood 
it.” 

Sabina  ceased  to  listen,  and  looked  about  her 
instead.  The  place  had  not  been  inhabited,  or 
much  visited,  by  the  owners  for  some  time,  and 
had  the  air  of  neglect  that  always  follows  on 
the  master’s  prolonged  absence.  The  contrast 
between  all  this  and  the  prosperous,  well-kept 
look  of  her  own  estate  did  not  escape  her.  It 
was  the  result  of  a Christian  landlord. 

She  had  no  fault,  however,  to  find  with  the 


FAUSTULA 


n 

manner  in  which  Melania  received  her  visitors. 
Sabina  said  that  she  was  perfectly  well-bred, 
and  she  was  quite  ready  to  do  justice  to  the 
young  widow’s  gentle  dignity  and  grace. 
Perhaps  she  liked  her  all  the  better  because 
Melania  evidently  did  not  set  up  for  a beauty. 
Her  features  were  good,  and  extremely  re- 
fined, and  she  was  a comely  young  woman; 
some  beauties  Sabina  had  known  had  not  had 
so  good  a stock-in-trade : her  neat,  small  figure 
was  well-formed,  and  she  carried  herself  with 
the  ease  and  grace  of  a person  at  home  in  the 
only  society  Sabina  recognized  as  society  at  all. 
But  her  dress  was  simple  and  plain  even  for  a 
widow,  and  she  wore  no  jewels;  her  manners 
had  the  same  simplicity  and  plainness,  and 
though  exceedingly  courteous,  there  was  none 
of  the  fashionable  determination  to  be  charm- 
ing at  any  price. 

“It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  come  and  see  me,” 
she  said.  “Of  course,  I knew  you  were  my 
neighbour.  I have  heard  of  you — you  are  the 
pattern  landlord;  I must  learn  your  secrets. 
This  place  has  been  rather  left  to  itself — as 
you  can  see.” 

“None  of  your  family  have  lived  here  since 
I came  to  Olibanum.” 

“No.  My  father-in-law  fancied  the  keen 
air  of  the  mountains  did  not  agree  with  him, 


74 


FAUSTULA 


and  he  was  City  Prsefect  and  had  much  to  do 
in  Rome.  He  died  only  last  year.” 

“One  can  see  that  this  has  been  a very  big 
place,”  said  Sabina,  thinking  she  was  saying 
something  civil,  “much  finer  than  my  castle 
of  the  winds  at  Olibanum.” 

“Oh,  this  was  never  really  a castle.  Long 
ago  there  used  to  be  a castle  here.  In  the  time 
of  the  Emperor  Nero  my  husband’s  ancestor 
built  this  huge  villa — perhaps  because  the  Em- 
peror had  built  his  villa  at  Sublaqueum. 
There  was  an  Acilius  Glabrio  then,  and  I dare- 
say he  thought  too  much  of  doing  what  the 
Emperor  did.” 

Sabina  was  not  sure  that  this  was  quite  the 
proper  way  of  alluding  to  the  whims  of  Em- 
perors; but  she  remembered  that  it  had  been 
Constantine’s  whim  to  turn  Christian,  and  that 
the  present  Constantine  had  the  same  eccen- 
tricity, and  suspended  her  judgment. 

“You  do  not  live  by  yourself  at  Olibanum?” 
said  Melania. 

“No.  I have  with  me  my  brother’s  son  and 
daughter.  He  has  been  absent  from  Italy  for 
some  years.” 

Faustulus  had  been  taking  stock  of  their 
hostess.  He  found  her  harmless  and  well- 
bred,  but  dowdy. 

“I  suppose  it  is  part  of  the  Christian  reli- 


FAUSTULA  75 

gion,”  he  thought,  “to  dress  like  your  grand- 
mother.” 

“I  am  an  ill-conducted  person,”  he  remarked 
cheerfully,  “who  travels  to  avoid  the  sense  of 
neglected  duties  at  home.” 

“There  certainly  are  more  duties  at  home 
than  one  can  flatter  oneself  one  fulfils,”  said 
Melania  without  much  appearance  of  taking 
him  seriously  or  being  shocked.  Sabina  knew 
that  her  duties  were  fulfilled  and  did  not  see 
why  other  people’s  should  be  neglected. 

“By  running  away  one  neglects  them  all,” 
she  observed,  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  she  had 
not  been  specially  delighted  by  her  brother’s 
return. 

“One  avoids  at  all  events  giving  bad  exam- 
ple,” said  Faustulus  demurely. 

“That  is  a great  tiling,”  said  Melania,  laugh- 
ing: the  brother  and  sister  amused  her.  Sa- 
bina at  any  rate  was  not  difficult  to  understand. 

“And  you,”  asked  that  lady,  to  change  the 
subject,  “you  do  not  live  here  alone  either?” 

“Oh  no ! I have  my  children,  two  boys  and 
a girl — and  my  husband’s  aunt  is  here,  too. 
Here  she  comes.” 

An  elderly  lady,  perhaps  sixty  years  of  age, 
entered  the  room  and  the  visitors  were  intro- 
duced to  her.  She  was  a widow,  like  Sabina, 
but  did  not  resemble  her  in  any  other  partic- 


FAUSTULA 


ular.  Her  name  was  Acilia,  and  her  husband, 
who  had  been  an  officer  of  high  rank,  had  been 
martyred  under  Diocletian.  She  had  evi- 
dently been  very  beautiful  and  was  handsome 
still ; her  manner  was  grave  and  dignified,  per- 
haps, it  seemed,  reserved ; but  it  was  not  severe 
or  sombre.  She  greeted  Sabina  and  Faustu- 
lus  with  a courtesy  that  the  latter  thought  a 
little  formal;  but  his  sister  did  not  at  all  dis- 
approve. She  rather  liked  stiffness  in  people 
of  rank  meeting  strangers  for  the  first  time; 
in  Rome  it  might  be  the  modern  fashion  to 
treat  new  acquaintances  as  if  one  had  known 
them  all  one’s  fife;  but  Sabina  did  not  care  for 
such  ways. 

“How  old  are  your  children?”  Sabina  in- 
quired presently  turning  to  Melania. 

“Perhaps  they  are  not  all  of  the  same  age,” 
Faustulus  suggested  before  his  hostess  could 
answer. 

Melania  smiled:  Acilia  had  not  caught  his 

remark  and  did  not  smile,  which  Sabina 
counted  to  her  for  righteousness. 

“My  boys  are  fourteen  and  twelve  years  old: 
they  are  called  Christopher  and  Fabian.  My 
little  girl  is  only  six  and  her  name  is  Domi- 
tilla” 

“Ah!”  cried  Sabina.  “My  nephew  is  twelve 
and  my  niece  is  six.” 


FAUSTULA 


77 


She  was  quite  interested.  The  coincidence 
struck  her:  she  turned  to  Faustulus,  who  had 
not  so  readily  remembered  the  precise  ages  of 
his  children. 

“It  is  unfortunate,”  he  observed,  “that 
Flavia  is  a girl  and  only  eleven.” 

Acilia  glanced  at  him  quickly  as  if  she 
thought  him  a peculiar  person:  as  indeed  he 
was.  But  Melania  caught  his  demure  eye  and 
could  not  help  smiling  again. 

“Perhaps,”  said  Sabina,  “when  you  come  to 
see  me  you  will  bring  your  children  with  you. 
Tatius  and  Faustula  never  see  any  children 
of  their  own  rank;  it  would  be  a treat  for 
them.” 

Acilia  perceived  that  Sabina  spoke  of  her 
brother’s  children  as  though  they  were  hers, 
and  that  he  himself  hardly  spoke  of  them  at 
all. 

Melania  thanked  Sabina  and  said  that  per- 
haps she  would  like  to  see  them  now. 

“I  have  not  much  to  show  you,”  she  said.  “I 
am  like  Cornelia,  the  mother  of  the  Gracchi, 
and  have  no  other  treasures.” 

Faustulus  was  not  struck  by  the  originality 
of  this  remark:  but  Sabina  liked  it.  She  did 
not  care  much  for  originality  in  people  of  po- 
sition, and,  as  the  allusion  was  to  an  illustrious 
heathen  of  antiquity,  it  seemed  to  her  to  show 


78 


FAUSTULA 


a wide-mindedness  she  had  not  expected  in  a 
noble  Christian.  At  the  same  time  she  was 
struck  by  its  justice.  The  house  was  almost  a 
palace,  but  it  was  singularly  bare.  The  furni- 
ture had  been  costly  but  there  was  not  much 
of  it,  and  nothing  seemed  to  have  been  added 
for  several  generations.  Beyond  the  furni- 
ture there  was  almost  nothing:  being  summer 
it  was  natural  that  there  should  be  no  carpets : 
but  there  were  no  statues,  no  rich  hangings, 
bo  mirrors  of  polished  silver,  none  of  the  ac- 
cumulations of  objects  of  art  usual  in  the  villa 
of  a great  noble. 

“The  children,”  said  Acilia,  “are  in  the  gar- 
den.” 

“And  the  view  from  the  garden  is  worth  see- 
ing at  any  rate,”  her  niece  remarked.  “Shall 
we  go  and  walk  there?” 


CHAPTER  VIII 


The  garden  itself  was  worth  seeing,  too. 

It  had  been  magnificent  once,  and  was 
perhaps  more  beautiful  now  than  in  the  days  of 
its  newest  splendour.  The  marble  balustrades 
were  weather-worn  by  the  frosts  and  rains  of 
nearly  three  centuries,  the  paved  alleys  had 
grown  uneven  in  places,  the  statues  had  a some- 
what forlorn  look,  but  the  trees  had  grown  to 
a beauty  they  could  not  have  had  when  they 
were  planted  in  Nero’s  days. 

As  Melania  said,  the  view  was  glorious:  or 
rather  the  views,  for  one  could  see  for  miles  in 
several  directions.  One  parapet  of  the  garden 
was  on  the  verge  of  the  precipice  that  fell  from 
it  hundreds  of  feet,  down  into  the  green  depths 
of  the  enormous  natural  amphitheatre  that 
must  once  have  been  a bay  of  the  sea.  A broad 
paved  terrace  ran  along  the  parapet,  with  a 
tall  and  thick  hedge  of  myrtle  on  the  inner 
side.  It  was  here  they  found  Melania’s  three 
children ; the  little  girl  was  playing  at  keeping 
a shop:  her  brothers  and  their  tutor  were  the 
customers. 

“Her  things  are  terribly  dear,”  declared 
Christopher  laughing,  when  their  mother  had 

79 


80 


FAUSTULA 


presented  them  to  the  visitors.  “She  wants 
twelve  oyster  shells  for  that  broken  pot,  and 
nine  kisses.” 

“It  is  not  dear  at  all,”  said  Faustulus.  “It 
is  you  who  are  trying  to  cheat  her.  Will  you 
sell  it  to  me,  Domitilla,  for  this — and  twelve 
kisses?” 

He  offered  her  a beautiful  little  ivory  box 
that  he  had  picked  up  on  his  travels. 

Domitilla  looked  at  it  and  at  him. 

“But  I meant  Christopher  to  have  it,  for 
eighteen  kisses  and  no  oyster-shells,”  she  ob- 
jected, wrinkling  up  her  small  nose. 

“Well,  I will  give  you  eighteen  kisses  and 
the  box,  too,”  urged  Faustulus. 

“But  it  was  Christopher’s  I wanted.” 

“I  will  give  you  my  eighteen  and  the  oyster 
shells,  and  you  may  give  the  broken  pot  to  the 
Most  Excellent  Faustulus,”  laughed  the 
brother. 

“And  I will  give  my  eighteen  and  the  box,” 
Faustulus  promised. 

Domitilla  looked  at  the  box  again,  and 
looked  at  Faustulus  again,  and  finally  looked 
at  her  mother. 

“I’m  not  sure,”  said  Melania,  “that  I ap- 
prove of  all  these  kisses — as  a matter  of  busi- 
ness.” 

“Nor  I,”  said  Acilia.  “But  give  the  Most 


FAUSTULA 


81 


Excellent  Faustulus  your  broken  pot,  since  he 
thinks  it  pretty.” 

“Oh,  but  I am  too  proud  to  go  shopping  for 
nothing,”  declared  Faustulus.  And  as  he  saw 
that  Melania  was  smiling  all  the  while,  he  bent 
down  and  kissed  the  pretty  child  and  then  laid 
his  ivory  box  on  Domitilla’s  counter. 

She  accepted  his  salute  with  perfect  gravity 
and  decorum : and  then  handed  the  broken  pot 
to  her  brother. 

“He  came  first,”  she  explained. 

“That’s  cheating,”  objected  Fabian,  “the 
Most  Excellent  Faustulus  bought  it.” 

Christopher  laughed  and  handed  the  pot 
over. 

“Well,  he  has  got  it  now,  anyway.” 

“That  ivory  box  is  too  pretty  for  Domitilla,” 
said  her  mother. 

“Oh,  you  don’t  think  so!”  Faustulus  de- 
clared, smiling  straight  into  her  eyes.  But 
Melania  shook  her  head. 

“She  is  a vain  puss,”  she  said  in  a low  voice, 
“you  are  not  to  make  her  vainer.” 

“Wait  till  you  see  my  own  small  Faustula 
and  you  will  be  jealous,”  he  answered. 

Sabina  did  not  much  approve  of  all  this : and 
perhaps  Acilia  did  not  either.  Another  per- 
son watched  it  all  with  quiet,  amused  eyes : this 
was  Domnio,  the  boys’  tutor,  a young  priest. 


82 


FAUSTULA 


Melania  had  already  introduced  him  to 
Faustulus,  who  had  bowed  with  a slightly  care- 
less civility  but  eyed  him  closely  all  the  same: 
Sabina,  when  the  priest  was  presented  to  her, 
bowed  with  an  exaggeration  of  determined  tol- 
eration that  ought  to  have  extinguished  him, 
and  did  not  seem  to  look  at  him  at  all.  He  re- 
ceived both  salutes  with  the  same  well-bred 
reserve,  without  saying  anything,  as  he  was 
clearly  not  expected  to  speak.  He  was  sev- 
eral years  younger  than  Melania,  whose  treat- 
ment of  him  slightly  puzzled  Sabina,  for, 
though  after  all  the  difference  between  their 
ages  could  not  be  great,  her  manner  to  him  was 
an  odd  mixture  of  the  filial  and  the  maternal. 
At  one  moment  it  might  seem  as  if  she  re- 
garded him  and  her  boys  as  comrades  and  con- 
temporaries, at  the  next  as  if  she  were  herself 
his  daughter. 

As  a Christian  priest  Sabina  felt  it  a duty  to 
disapprove  of  him,  and  the  duties  of  disap- 
proval were  seldom  neglected  by  her:  nor  did 
she  welcome  the  idea  that  she  was  expected  to 
behave  to  him  as  to  a social  equal,  for  that  she 
was  sure  he  was  not. 

Nevertheless  the  duty  of  being  well-bred 
came  before  everything;  and  as  Acilia  and  Me- 
lania, whose  rank  was  at  least  equal  to  her  own, 
betrayed  not  the  slightest  consciousness  of  con- 


FAUSTULA 


83 


descension  in  their  behaviour  to  Domnio,  she 
did  her  best  to  show  none  herself. 

Presently  they  all  turned  and  walked  along 
the  terrace,  the  three  ladies  in  front,  with  lit- 
tle Domitilla  clinging  to  her  mother’s  hand: 
Domnio  and  his  pupils  followed,  one  of  the 
boys  hanging  to  his  arm,  the  other  between  him 
and  Faustulus,  who  was  immediately  behind 
his  sister.  She  was  annoyed  at  his  indiscretion 
when  she  heard  him  again  broach  the  subject 
of  the  two  statues  at  the  entrance  of  the  villa. 

“They  are  fine,”  he  observed  coolly;  “were 
they  removed  from  a temple?” 

“No,”  Domnio  answered;  “they  were  dug 
up.  About  twenty  years  ago  Acilius  Glabrio 
was  trying  to  find  the  tank  that  supplies  the 
conduits  for  the  fountains  and  they  came  upon 
those  two  statues.” 

Sabina  thought  his  reply  in  better  breeding 
than  her  brother’s  question:  Faustulus  ought 
not  to  have  gone  anywhere  near  subjects  in 
which  the  difference  of  religion  was  involved, 
and  the  young  priest,  while  answering  without 
hesitation,  did  so  as  briefly  as  possible,  and  was 
careful  to  say  nothing  touching  on  that  differ- 
ence. 

But  Faustulus,  whose  own  good  breeding 
was  quite  a surface  matter,  would  not  drop  a 
subject  which  happened  to  interest  him. 


84 


FAUSTULA 


“Were  they  put  up  in  their  present  position 
immediately  ?”  he  asked. 

“No,  I think  not.” 

Domnio  seemed  inclined  to  say  no  more,  but 
Faustulus  wanted  to  know  all  about  it. 

“What  was  the  alternative?”  he  inquired. 
“If  they  had  not  been  erected  where  they  are, 
what  would  have  become  of  them?” 

Domnio  laughed  and  said: 

“I’m  afraid  I can’t  tell  you.  Twenty  years 
ago  I was  only  six  years  old,  and  I was  not 
here.” 

The  ladies  meanwhile  were  talking  together 
in  front.  Melania  now  turned  round  and 
called  upon  Faustulus  to  admire  the  view 
towards  Sublaqueum.  He  had  to  drop  the 
subject  of  the  statues.  Presently  the  others 
moved  on  and  they  were  left  a little  behind. 

“Your  priest  is  very  discreet,”  he  observed 
in  his  tone  of  whimsical,  almost  boyish  wilful- 
ness. 

“You  do  not  admire  discretion?”  she  said 
smiling. 

“Not  when  it  comes  between  me  and  my 
wishes.  I wanted  to  know  if  there  had  been 
any  idea  of  breaking  those  images  up.” 

“None  whatever.  My  father-in-law  was  a 
very  good  judge  of  sculpture,  and  thought  the 
statues  fine,  as  they  certainly  are  antique. 


FAUSTULA 


85 


The  worst  that  would  have  happened  to  them 
would  have  been  the  decision  to  bury  them 
again  where  they  were  found.” 

“That  would  have  been  to  avoid  the  risk  of 
their  being  worshipped?” 

“Yes:  but  there  was  no  such  risk;  our  people 
here  are  all  Christians.  To  break  them  up 
would  have  encouraged  another  superstition, 
and  that  my  father-in-law  was  anxious  not  to 
do.” 

“-What  was  it?” 

Melania  paused  a moment,  standing  still  as 
she  considered. 

“I  think,”  she  said  quietly,  “that  I ought  not 
to  explain  it.”  Then  turning  to  him  quickly 
with  her  pleasant,  frank  smile  she  added: 
“Why  should  we  talk  about  the  things  on  which 
we  cannot  think  alike?” 

“You  cannot  tell  how  I think,”  he  objected 
perversely.  “Do  you  imagine  I worship  those 
images?” 

“I  suppose,”  she  answered,  “that  you  rever- 
ence them.” 

“Indeed  I do  not.  I merely  admire  them. 
To  reverence  them  one  must  believe  in  the 
myths  they  embody.  Now  tell  me  what  the 
counter-superstition  was  which  Acilius  Glabrio 
did  not  wish  to  encourage.” 

“You  are  very  obstinate,”  she  answered. 


86 


FAUSTULA 


“Or  you  are.” 

“No:  but  I dislike  saying  what  I should  im- 
agine must  be  disagreeable  to  hear:  when  our 
simple  country-folk,  and  some  of  our  better 
educated  townsfolk  too,  ceased  to  believe  in 
the  old  gods  they  rushed  into  the  opposite  ex- 
treme, and  believed  that  they  were  devils.” 

“And  you  do  not?” 

“No,  because  I do  not  believe  in  their  exist- 
ence at  all.” 

“Nor  do  I.  So,  you  see,  you  and  I happen 
to  think  alike,  and  you  had  no  business  to  feel 
sure  that  our  belief  must  be  so  different  that 
we  could  not  allude  to  it  without  quarrelling.” 

This  Melania  chose  to  ignore,  and  went  on 
with  the  explanation  he  had  insisted  upon  and 
interrupted. 

“So,  you  see,  my  father-in-law  was  deter- 
mined not  to  break  the  statues  up.  At  first 
our  people  did  destroy  some  images  of  the 
gods,  but  that  was  only  in  the  days  when  it 
seemed  that  the  danger  of  their  being  wor- 
shipped was  still  real  and  considerable:  even 
then  they  were  often  buried  instead.  When 
the  people  were  more  inclined  to  regard  the 
gods  as  devils,  and  as  such  to  attach  a supersti- 
tious fear  to  their  images,  it  seemed  better  to 
keep  them  and  teach  the  more  ignorant  to  un- 
derstand that  they  were  nothing  except  as 


FAUSTULA 


87 


works  of  ancient  art,  neither  good  nor  bad  in 
themselves.  We  want  it  to  be  understood  that 
the  Church  has  nothing  to  fear  from  the  help- 
less statues  of  gods  . . . now  I have  been  long- 
winded  and  prosy,  and  it  serves  you  right : I did 
it  on  purpose.” 

She  ended  with  a low  laugh  in  which  her 
guest  joined  quite  cheerfully. 

“Your  punishment  was  not  excessive. 
What  would  you  have  done  if  Christopher  and 
Fabian  had  insisted  on  your  telling  them  some- 
thing you  had  not  meant  to  tell?” 

“Christopher  and  Fabian  would  have  known 
better  than  to  try.” 

“You  are  so  dreadful?” 

“They  are  so  good — I should  say  so  well- 
behaved.” 

“Am  not  I well-behaved?” 

“Not  to-day.  You  teased  your  sister  in- 
doors, and  now  you  are  preventing  my  attend- 
ing to  her.” 

She  moved  forward  as  she  spoke  and  joined 
the  other  ladies,  and  the  children. 

“Christopher  and  Fabian,”  she  said.  “Go 
in  and  see  if  they  have  made  ready  refresh- 
ments.” 

“May  I go  with  them?”  Faustulus  asked,  at 
which  Sabina  stared  with  horror.  If  those 
were  the  manners  noble  Romans  picked  up  in 


88 


FAUSTULA 


foreign  travel  they  had  better  stay  at  home. 
But  her  brother  walked  off  with  the  boys,  who 
regarded  him  with  a chastened  curiosity  that 
he  enjoyed;  next  to  seeing  something  odd  and 
new  himself  it  amused  him  to  figure  in  that 
capacity  for  others. 

“I  thought  it  better  to  come  away,”  he  ex- 
plained amiably;  “my  sister  would  like  to  scold 
me,  and  your  mother  has  been  doing  it.” 

“What  for?”  Christopher  inquired  with  in- 
terest. 

“Asking  questions.” 

“And  you  are  asking  questions  now,  Chris- 
topher,” his  brother  pointed  out. 

“But  I don’t  mind,”  said  Faustulus.  “So 
you  are  Fabian,  and  you  are  twelve  years  old. 
An  excellent  age.  It  is  my  own  son’s ; but  he 
does  not  do  it  justice.” 

“How  did  you  know  I was  twelve?”  asked 
F abian. 

“I  know  everything.  Christopher  is  four- 
teen, and  Domitilla  is  six.  So  is  F austula.” 

“Six  or  fourteen?”  Fabian  demanded;  they 
were  not  hurrying,  and  he  took  Faustulus  by 
the  arm  and  leant  upon  it  in  the  friendliest 
manner. 

“Fabian!”  his  brother  expostulated. 

“What’s  the  matter?” 

“Faustulus  is  grown  up.” 


FAUSTULA 


89 


“Do  you  mind?”  Fabian  inquired  without 
letting  go  their  guest’s  arm. 

“Being  grown  up?  It  can’t  be  helped. 
You  and  Christopher  will  come  to  it.  Let  us 
waive  the  subject.  It  is  Faustula  who  is  six. 
Your  mother  is  to  bring  you  and  Domitilla  to 
see  her  and  Tatius.” 

“Shall  you  be  there?”  asked  Fabian,  who  was 
more  interested  for  the  moment  in  the  guest 
he  had  at  his  side  than  in  his  children  whom 
he  had  not  seen. 

“Who’s  asking  questions  now?”  suggested 
Christopher. 

“No.  I shall  be  in  Rome:  I go  back  to- 
morrow.” 

“I’m  sorry,”  Fabian  observed  decidedly. 

“Fabian,  that  is  not  polite,”  his  brother 
pointed  out.  “You  are  not  to  express  your 
opinion  as  to  Faustulus  going  away.” 

“I  think  it  very  polite  indeed,”  laughed 
F austulus. 

The  refreshments  indoors  were  ready  and 
the  steward  of  the  household,  an  elderly  f reed- 
man,  was  just  coming  out  to  say  so.  Faustu- 
lus and  the  two  boys  went  back  to  report. 

When  the  little  party  was  assembled  in  the 
large,  rather  bare  triclinium,  Sabina  noticed 
that,  though  there  were  plenty  of  slaves  in  the 
room,  the  fruits  and  sweet  cakes  were  not 


90 


FAUSTULA 


handed  by  them,  but  by  the  boys,  who  waited 
on  their  mother’s  guests,  taking  the  dishes  from 
the  hands  of  the  slaves  and  carrying  them  to 
their  elders.  She  remarked  on  this  to  her 
brother  on  their  way  home. 

“The  lads  did  it  very  well,”  she  confessed, 
“but  it  seems  to  me  lowering.  They  were  al- 
most as  respectful  as  if  they  had  been  slaves 
themselves : and  the  slaves  did  not  behave  quite 
like  ours.” 

“They  were  perfectly  respectful.” 

“Of  course . But  there  was  a difference  in 

manner.” 

“I  saw  there  was.” 

Sabina  could  not  exactly  define  it,  even  to 
herself.  Her  own  slaves  were  thoroughly 
well-treated,  well-fed,  and  well-clothed;  they 
were  perfectly  happy  and  contented,  she  sup- 
posed; if  not  they  must  be  ungrateful  crea- 
tures, whose  fancies  mattered  to  no  one.  But 
Melania’s  slaves  had  not  precisely  the  air  of 
being  slaves  at  all;  it  appeared  partly  in  their 
manner  to  each  other,  and  partly  in  their  bear- 
ing to  their  young  masters.  To  the  latter  they 
were  extremely  respectful,  but  with  a sort  of 
intimate  respect  that  implied  not  only  aff  ection 
that  was  like  family  affection,  but  a sense  of 
something  in  common,  and  that  something  so 
important  that  it  bound  them  together  by  a 


FAUSTULA 


91 


more  equal  tie  than  that  of  possession  on  one 
side  and  being  possessed  on  the  other.  Sabina, 
who  was  not  in  the  least  a stupid  person,  hit 
this  peculiarity  off  pretty  well  when  she  said: 
“If  my  slaves  were  like  that  I should  feel  that 
they  belonged  to  themselves  rather  than  to 
me.” 

And  towards  each  other  she  had  noticed  that 
they  behaved  with  a sort  of  mutual  considera- 
tion that  she  somehow  disliked:  she  never  per- 
mitted quarrels  among  her  own  slaves,  and 
expected  them  to  be  on  good  terms  among 
themselves,  but  she  would  have  thought  it  out 
of  place  if  they  treated  each  other  like  f reed- 
men. 

“I  like  Acilia  best  of  them  all,”  she  informed 
her  brother.  Of  Melania  she  did  not  at  pres- 
ent approve  quite  so  much  as  at  first. 

“And  I liked  her  least,”  Faustulus  declared 
without  hesitation.  “I  suspect  Domnio  would 
be  the  best  worth  knowing  of  the  party,  and 
next  to  him  I like  Fabian.” 

“Domnio,”  observed  Sabina,  who  was  quite 
aware  that  her  brother  had  praised  the  priest 
to  annoy  her,  “certainly  set  you  an  example  of 
proper  behaviour.” 


CHAPTER  IX 


That  evening  Faustulus  amused  himself,  as 
he  had  amused  himself  the  evening  be- 
fore, by  playing  with  his  daughter,  petting  her 
and  making  her  say  pert  things.  Most  of 
them  he  put  into  her  mouth,  but  he  repeated 
them  aloud  as  if  she  had  originated  them,  and 
the  small  child  was  naughty  enough  to  think 
it  very  good  fun. 

No  one  had  ever  made  much  of  her  before, 
much  less  spoiled  her,  and  the  change  was  un- 
doubtedly pleasant.  When  her  father  de- 
clared she  had  just  said  something  at  which  he 
laughed  gleefully  she  thought  him  very  witty 
and  agreeable. 

It  is  true  she  tried  to  bring  Tatius  into  their 
delightful  conversation,  but  in  that  she  failed, 
for  Faustulus  did  not  want  it,  and  her  brother 
was  firmly  resolved  not  to  play  second  or  third 
fiddle:  and  the  boy  perceived  that  Sabina  by 
no  means  approved  of  his  father’s  trivialities. 
She  was  nearly  as  jealous  on  her  nephew’s  ac- 
count as  he  was  on  his  own,  and  saw  no  sense  in 
the  way  Faustulus  was  teaching  his  daughter 
to  behave.  She  had  been  slightly  offended 
when  he  told  her  he  must  return  to  Rome  so 

92 


FAUSTULA 


93 


soon,  but  now  she  was  not  particularly  sorry  4 
if  he  stayed  long  Faustula  would  be  completely 
spoiled. 

“ ‘No,”  he  said,  in  a low  voice,  which  Tatius 
overheard  very  well,  for  that  young  gentleman 
had  sharp  ears,  “it  is  of  no  use  trying  to  make 
him  join  in  our  talk.  We  are  naughty.  He 
is  never  naughty:  he  tries  to  be  as  good  as  Sa- 
bina.” 

“I  don’t  want  to  be  naughty,”  Faustula 
whispered. 

She  was  on  her  father’s  lap  and  crumpling 
up  one  of  his  ears  with  her  small  plump  fin- 
gers. Tatius  saw  that  she  was  whispering, 
though  he  could  not  catch  what  she  said;  of 
course  she  was  laughing  at  him,  too. 

“But  I want  to  be  naughty,”  Faustulus  de- 
clared, “and  I can’t  be  naughty  all  by  myself.” 

Then  he  told  her  about  Domitilla  who  was 
coming  to  see  her,  and  said  that  she  was  pretty, 
very  pretty  indeed,  but  not  so  pretty  as  Faus- 
tula herself.  Poor  little  Faustula,  how  could 
she  help  liking  to  hear  that  she  was  pretty? 

“Domitilla  is  six  years  old  like  you.  And 
Fabian  is  twelve  like  Tatius ; he’s  coming,  too.” 

“Is  Fabian  pretty?” 

“Not,”  said  Faustulus  demurely,  “of  course, 
so  beautiful  as  Tatius:  but  you  will  see. 
There’s  another  brother,  Christopher,  but  I 


94  FAUSTULA 

like  Fabian  best.  Christopher  thinks  me 
naughty.” 

When  her  father  told  her  that  Fabian  was 
not  so  beautiful  as  her  brother  the  child  could 
see  very  well  that  he  did  not  think  Tatius 
nice-looking  at  all.  It  all  puzzled  her  a little : 
she  found  her  father  charming,  and  she  saw 
that  Tatius  did  not  like  him,  and  also  that 
Faustulus  did  not  care  in  the  least  whether  his 
son  disliked  him  or  no.  To  make  things  per- 
fect they  would  have  been  as  friendly  as  she 
and  her  father  were,  but  she  could  not  help 
enjoying  the  brief  and  novel  sunshine  in  which 
she  was  basking  so  pleasantly. 

Alas,  poor  Faustula!  she  could  not  under- 
stand that  her  delightful,  caressing  companion 
had  scarcely  more  heart  than  his  cross,  unat- 
tractive son : that  he  would  leave  her  to-morrow 
without  the  least  regret,  send  her  funny  mes- 
sages in  a letter  or  two  (which  Sabina  would 
never  deliver)  and  forget  her  as  easily  for  the 
next  four  years  as  he  had  forgotten  her  for  the 
last  six.  She  thought,  perhaps,  if  little  girls 
of  six  can  think  so  definitely,  that  a new  golden 
age  was  beginning  for  her,  an  age  of  cheerful 
affectionate  intimacy  wherein  she  would  have 
someone  to  take  her  part,  to  be  fond  of  her, 
and  think  her  pretty  and  amusing. 

I daresay  she  knew  that  her  father  really 


FAUSTULA 


95 


was  naughty,  that  he  made  fun  of  Sabina,  and 
scoffed  at  her  brother;  but  Faustula  had  an  al- 
most empty  heart,  the  only  heart  in  the  family, 
and  Faustulus  appealed  to  it. 

Clodia  did  love  her,  and  she  loved  Clodia, 
too:  but,  tiny  child  as  she  was,  she  knew  her 
nurse  was  only  a slave,  and  she  needed  some 
other  love;  little  Faustula  was,  after  all,  a 
noble  Roman  lady  and  could  not  be  content 
with  a slave’s  aff  ection.  Her  six  years  had  all 
been  spent  in  the  poisoned  air  of  heathenism, 
and,  though  she  never  thought  of  it  deliber- 
ately, Clodia  was  not  a human  being  in  her  own 
sense  of  it. 

It  would  not  have  mattered  if  she  had  not 
had  that  terrible  gift  of  a heart  that  would  be 
always  growing  larger,  and  emptier;  that  even 
Clodia’s  wonderful,  patient  love  could  never 
fill,  and  must  ever  be  hungry  for  a sort  of  love 
it  could  not  understand,  but  only  f eel  the  want 
of. 

Faustulus  had  not  the  least  suspicion  that 
such  an  extraordinary  demand  was  being  made 
upon  him:  he  had  never  loved  anybody,  not 
even  himself,  and  had  never  expected  anybody 
to  love  him.  He  knew  familiarly  all  that  the 
poets  had  sung  about  love,  but  what  the 
heathen  poets  and  he  meant  by  it  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  hunger  of  a child’s  heart. 


96 


FAUSTULA 


He  held  in  his  arms  the  lovely  little  daugh- 
ter whose  beauty  pleased  his  eyes  and  flattered 
his  pride;  he  kissed  away  her  rising  tears  and 
was  flattered  by  them,  then  he  set  her  down, 
and  mounted  his  fine  horse,  of  which  he  also 
was  proud,  and  rode  away  down  the  steep  road. 

“Now,  Faustula,”  said  Sabina,  and  Tatius 
in  his  heart  thought,  “Now,  Faustula!’’ 

Sabina  was  not,  of  course,  in  the  least  un- 
kind to  her  niece  when  that  niece’s  injudicious, 
irresponsible  father  rode  off  towards  Rome. 
She  had  not  burdened  her  widowhood  with  a 
small  girl  to  treat  her  badly.  On  the  con- 
trary her  intention  had  always  been  to  do  her 
duty  by  her  charge,  and  it  was  still : only  it  was 
no  part  of  her  duty  to  let  the  little  girl  become 
pert  and  spoiled.  F or  two  days  Faustulus  had 
done  his  best  to  turn  his  daughter’s  head:  but 
two  days  are  not  much,  and  Sabina  would  soon 
turn  that  small  head  back  to  its  proper  place. 

She  was  not  mean  enough  to  visit  on  Faus- 
tula her  father’s  absurd  misbehaviour;  Faus- 
tula was  not  punished  or  even  scolded,  she  was 
not  made  to  feel  herself  in  disgrace;  but  she 
did  feel  that  her  happy  interlude  was  over. 
Her  sun  went  down  behind  the  ridge  of  hill 
that  rose  at  the  turn  of  the  downward  road 
where  Faustulus  passed  out  of  sight;  and  the 
Castle  of  Olibanum  fell  back  into  its  dull 


FAUSTULA 


97 


shade.  And  it  may  be  assumed  that  Sabina 
never  liked  Faustula  so  well  after  her  father’s 
visit  as  before:  she  had  always  preferred  Ta- 
tius,  and  as  she  saw,  as  clearly  as  the  boy  him- 
self, that  Faustulus  much  preferred  his  daugh- 
ter, Sabina  made  up  for  it  by  preferring  her 
nephew  more  than  ever. 

Tatius  himself  was  mean,  and  he  never  for- 
gave his  sister  for  having  caught  their  father’s 
fancy.  He  could  hardly  have  treated  her  with 
more  indifference,  but  the  child  soon  felt  that 
her  brother  now  really  disliked  her.  In  time 
his  enmity  affected  her  fate  materially:  at 
present  it  only  deepened,  more  and  more,  her 
passionate  sense  of  loneliness. 

As  it  happened,  the  day  of  her  father’s  de- 
parture brought  another  event,  commonplace 
in  itself,  that  was  also  to  influence  her  whole 
life. 

Melania,  to  mark  her  sense  of  Sabina’s  cour- 
tesy, thought  it  proper  to  return  her  visit  at 
once,  and  come  over  to  Olibanum  that  after- 
noon. She  brought  with  her  the  two  boys — 
without  their  priestly  tutor,  to  Sabina’s  great 
satisfaction — explaining  that  Acilia  never  went 
abroad  since  her  husband’s  tragic  death,  and 
that  she  had  not  ventured  to  take  Sabina  alto- 
gether at  her  word  and  bring  so  small  a child 
as  Domitilla  this  time. 


98 


FAUSTULA 


“If  you  really  are  so  good  as  to  wish  it,”  she 
said,  “I  would  let  her  come  to  play  with  Faus- 
tula:  or  perhaps  you  would  allow  Faustula  to 
come  over  and  play  with  her.” 

Meanwhile  Sabina  sent  for  Tatius  and  his 
sister  and  bade  them  take  Christopher  and 
Fabian  out  into  the  garden. 

“Our  gardens  here,”  she  said,  “are  not  so 
beautiful  as  yours;  but  the  children  can  amuse 
themselves  better  out  of  doors.” 

The  two  ladies  sat  indoors  in  state:  Sabina 
behaving  rather  like  one  of  the  stricter  Em- 
presses, say  her  namesake  Julia  Sabina,  Ha- 
drian’s wife,  and  Melania  taking  it  all  in  with 
an  inward  gratitude  that  Faustulus  was  no 
longer  there  to  make  her  want  to  smile.  Sa- 
bina felt  much  more  at  ease  without  him  and 
was  a good  deal  more  graciously  ponderous  and 
ponderously  gracious.  She,  who  had  never 
had  any  child  of  her  own,  laid  down  the  law 
concerning  the  management  of  children  till  she 
began  to  feel  that,  for  a mother,  Melania  had 
really  just  ideas  on  the  subject:  for  the  young 
widow  never  opposed  her  paltry  experience  to 
Sabina’s  sage  theories.  If  Tatius  and  Faus- 
tula had  not  actually  suffered  from  all  the  dis- 
eases their  aunt  described,  it  was  clear  that  she 
would  have  known  exactly  how  to  cure  them 
if  they  had  given  her  the  opportunity. 


FAUSTULA 


99 


Then  there  was  the  larger  question  of  how  to 
manage  a large  estate,  and  here  Sabina  was 
more  interesting  for  she  knew  her  subject  well. 
She  found  Melania  so  good  a listener  that  she 
was  now  disposed  to  regard  her  acquaintance 
as  rather  an  acquisition:  to  the  wise  it  is  de- 
lightful to  be  able  to  impart  instruction,  and 
Sabina  thought  it  would  be  worth  while  to  take 
Melania  in  hand  and  enrich  her  with  all  her 
own  wisdom. 

The  conversation  turned  again  to  the  subject 
of  sickness,  since  a large  estate  implied  many 
slaves  and  slaves  will  fall  ill  like  their  betters, 
and  Sabina,  by  an  easy  transition  arrived  at  her 
late  husband’s  disorders,  which  she  described 
with  scrupulous  particularity,  and  especially 
that  peculiarly  interesting  one  which  resulted 
in  her  widowhood:  she  had  been  a good  wife, 
without  caring  much  for  him,  and  he  had  been 
an  excellent  husband,  almost  incomparable  as 
a patient:  the  nursing  of  him  had  evidently 
been  the  most  interesting  part  of  her  career  as 
a married  woman.  Meanwhile  the  young  peo- 
ple were  getting  on  very  well  out  of  doors. 

Tatius  was  not  much  impressed  by  the  strik- 
ing fact  of  his  being  of  the  same  age  as  Fabian, 
and  immediately  devoted  himself  to  Chris- 
topher, who  as  an  elder  son  was  more  worthy 
of  his  attention.  So  he  led  him  away  and  did 


100 


FAUSTULA 


the  honours  with  considerable  satisfaction  to 
himself.  Christopher  pref erred  hearing  about 
Sabina’s  estate  and  the  family  of  the  Faustuli 
to  being  cross-questioned,  and  Tatius  was  much 
more  interested  in  his  aunt’s  affairs,  which  he 
felt  were  indeed  his  own,  than  in  those  of  the 
Acilii,  so  that  he  soon  gave  over  seeking  for 
information  and  imparted  it  pretty  freely.  In 
one  matter  he  was  wiser  than  his  father,  for  he 
carefully  eschewed  any  approach  to  the  subject 
of  religion.  That  the  Christians  had  an 
absurd  faith  he  knew  quite  well,  but  he  knew 
also  that  the  religion  was  now  encouraged,  and 
was  even  that  of  the  Emperor,  and  there  was 
something  about  Christopher  that  warned  him 
it  would  be  impossible  to  allude  to  it  slight- 
ingly. Always  prudent,  he  carefully  steered 
the  bark  of  conversation  among  safe  waters 
where  no  risks  of  a snubbing  could  be  feared. 
Having  seldom  met  any  boys  of  his  own  class 
he  was  quite  unaware  that  the  Acilii  ranked, 
in  the  estimation  of  those  learned  in  such 
things,  higher  than  the  Faustuli,  and  he 
bragged  about  his  family  in  a way  that  made 
Christopher  open  his  eyes  rather  than  his 
mouth.  The  boys  with  whom  Tatius  had 
talked  were  chiefly  heathen  slaves,  and  some 
of  his  remarks  made  Christopher  rather  glad 
to  get  back  to  the  glories  of  the  Faustuli. 


FAUSTULA 


101 


Fabian  and  little  Faustula  got  on  much  bet- 
ter. There  was  no  fear  of  her  dilating  on  the 
historic  greatness  of  her  family,  but  her  mind 
was  full  of  one  member  of  it  and  of  Faustulus 
she  talked  to  a kind  and  friendly  listener.  It 
astounded  him  to  find  that  he  had  seen  almost 
as  much  of  her  father  as  she  had,  that  is,  that 
she  had  never  seen  him  till  two  days  ago;  but 
of  those  two  delicious  days  the  poor  child  could 
not  talk  enough.  The  fact  that  Fabian  had 
been  in  his  company  yesterday  afternoon  suf- 
ficed to  make  him  a delightful  companion. 
Was  it  not  inevitable  that  she  should  compare 
them?  Except  her  brother  they  were  the  only 
two  gentlemen  she  had  even  known,  and  to  the 
six-year-old  little  girl  the  big,  tall  lad  of  twelve 
seemed  almost  grown  up.  Though  two  years 
younger  Fabian  was  of  the  same  height  as 
Christopher,  and  they  were  singularly  alike, 
with  the  same  colouring  and  the  same  features, 
but  Fabian  had  a brighter  expression,  and  was 
much  more  attractive. 

Faustulus  had  grey-blue  eyes,  so  had  Fabian : 
and  both  had  the  same  air  of  distinction,  though 
the  boy  had  a nobler  bearing  than  the  man, 
because  his  thoughts  were  nobler.  Both  were 
gifted  with  a peculiar  grace  of  bearing,  and 
F austula  was  too  young  to  know  that  in  Fabian 
it  was  the  natural  expression  of  a rare  grace 


102 


FAUSTULA 


of  character,  in  her  father  only  an  acquired 
habit.  Faustulus  had  petted  her  because  she 
was  pretty,  Fabian  was  kind  because  he  was  a 
strong  lad  and  she  was  a weak  and  helpless 
child.  The  difference  she  could  not  divine, 
the  similarity  she  could  feel. 

The  boy  was  as  clever  as  the  man,  and  had 
far  finer  intuitions,  and  he  understood  very 
soon  that  Faustula  was  a lonely  little  creature, 
neglected  though  well-treated;  Sabina  to  him 
appeared  a wooden,  elderly  lady,  who  reminded 
him  of  Caryatides  he  had  seen  in  Rome,  though 
she  carried  nothing  heavier  on  her  head  than  a 
rather  architectural  arrangement  of  hair. 
Tatius  he  had  seen,  yet  only  for  five  minutes, 
but  five  minutes  were  enough  to  show  him  that 
the  self-satisfied,  conceited  boy  cared  for  no- 
body much  except  himself,  and  did  not  care  for 
his  sister  at  all.  As  for  Faustulus  he  was  half 
puzzled  by  him.  To  himself  Faustulus  had 
been  charming,  and  it  was  plain  that  his  small 
daughter  had  found  him  more  charming  still; 
but  it  was  odd  that  she  had  only  seen  him  for 
two  days  in  all  her  short  life,  and  Fabian’s  in- 
stincts were  too  shrewd  and  too  just  to  accept 
mere  pleasantries  for  something  more  im- 
portant. If  little  Faustula  had  been  left  with- 
out love  it  was  pretty  clear  that  her  father  had 
left  her  as  much  alone  as  anyone  else.  Her 


FAUSTULA 


103 


extraordinary  gratitude  for  the  wayward 
kindness  of  two  days  was  not  lost  on  the  boy 
who  had  been  surrounded  with  kindness  all  his 
life:  it  seemed  to  him  terribly  pathetic,  and 
while  it  made  him  angry  with  Faustulus,  it 
threw  a strange  halo  of  pity  round  his  daughter. 

A Roman  lad  of  twelve  is  older  than  a 
northern  boy  of  the  same  years,  but  Fabian 
was  not  precocious  in  such  matters,  and  he  was 
not  at  all  the  boy  to  fall  in  love  at  first  sight, 
and  when  boys  of  such  an  age  imagine  them- 
selves in  love  it  is  not  with  tiny  girls  of  six. 
Nevertheless  he  had  at  once  a tender,  chival- 
rous feeling  for  his  childish  hostess  that  was 
never  forgotten,  and  was  destined  to  give  her 
a peculiar  place  in  his  heart.  For  F abian  had 
a heart,  the  first  with  which  Faustula  ever 
came  in  touch.  From  that  first  afternoon, 
he  thought  of  her  always  as  a helpless, 
desolate  creature  whom  he  must  not  forget,  to 
whom  he  must  make  up,  somehow,  for  the  pite- 
ous neglect  that  clung  about  her:  and  being 
of  a silent,  thoughtful  nature,  merry  as  he  was, 
his  feeling  towards  her  was  hidden  within  him- 
self, like  a sacred  emotion  of  which  it  would 
be  coarse  and  vulgar  to  speak. 


CHAPTER  X 


When  Sabina  led  her  guest  out  into  the 
garden  they  found  Fabian  and  Faus- 
tula  on  excellent  terms,  which  caused  Sabina 
to  suspect  that  he  must  be  rather  a milk-sop. 
The  fact  that  her  brother  had  declared  him  the 
most  interesting  member  of  his  family  had  not 
particularly  prejudiced  her  in  his  favour: 
however,  the  boy  had  excellent  manners  and 
was  neither  pert  nor  over  talkative.  She 
noted  with  approval  that  he  only  spoke  to  her, 
and  to  his  mother  in  her  presence,  when  ad- 
dressed first. 

Melania  was  a gentle,  simple  creature,  quite 
without  stiffness  or  pomposity,  but  Sabina 
had  observed  yesterday  that  her  sons,  in  public 
at  all  events,  treated  her  like  a little  queen, 
with  a deference  that  was  none  the  less  marked 
that  it  was  full  of  affectionate  confidence. 

“And  where,”  Sabina  asked,  “are  the  oth- 
ers?” 

Fabian  and  her  niece  were  in  her  eyes  the 
least  important  of  the  young  people.  Like 
Tatius  she  had  a leaning  towards  the  heads  of 
families. 

“They  went  over  there,”  Fabian  answered: 

104 


FAUSTULA 


105 


“they  walked  rather  too  quick  for  us;  so  we 
have  been  amusing  ourselves  here  on  the  ter- 
race.” 

“I  suppose,”  said  Sabina,  with  a rather  heavy 
playfulness,  “she  has  been  telling  you  about 
her  dolls:  two  of  them  had  fever  last  week — 
but  big  boys  don’t  care  for  pupce , Faustula.” 
Faustula  perceived  that  her  aunt  was  in  a 
good  humour,  and  hoped  that  these  visitors 
would  come  often. 

“Have  you  been  telling  Fabian,”  Sabina 
went  on,  “how  you  wanted  to  give  them  decoc- 
tion of  marshmallow?” 

Faustula  was  a little  surprised  to  find  her 
aunt  knew  anything  about  her  dolls  having  had 
fever;  Melania  thought  it  showed  a sort  of 
kindly  interest  in  the  child’s  small  concerns  for 
which  she  would  hardly  have  given  her  credit, 
and  promptly  took  herself  to  task  for  having 
judged  rashly.  The  truth  was  that  Tatius  had 
come  to  Sabina  during  the  last  week  saying: 
“Isn’t  Faustula  silly?  She  pretends  two  of 
her  dolls  have  ague  and  wants  to  give  them 
marshmallow  water!” 

“Little  girls  of  her  age  can  not  be  so  intelli- 
gent as  big  boys  like  you,”  his  aunt  had  replied. 
“Of  course  pupce  have  no  mouths.” 

When  Sabina  began  talking  about  the  dolls, 
Fabian,  who  was  still  holding  the  little  girl  by 


106 


FAUSTULA 


the  hand,  gave  it  a small  squeeze,  as  much  as 
to  say,  “We  know  what  we  have  been  talking 
about ; that  does  not  concern  the  grown-up  peo- 
ple.” And  Faustula  was  grateful,  for,  some- 
how, she  did  not  want  her  aunt  to  know  they 
had  been  talking  almost  entirely  about  her 
father  and  his  delightful  ways. 

“I  wonder  where  the  others  are,”  Sabina  ob- 
served presently,  and  Melania  suggested  that 
Fabian  and  Faustula  should  go  and  look  for 
them:  so  the  two  widows  were  left  to  themu 
selves  on  the  terrace. 

The  garden  was  formed  by  a succession  of 
terraces,  on  the  highest  of  which  the  castle 
stood  frowningly.  Its  back  was  turned  to  the 
Sabine  hills,  on  a spur  of  which  it  hung:  one 
side  faced  towards  Rome,  the  shorter  front 
looked  across  to  the  Volscians;  away  to  the  left 
were  the  Hernicans.  Beneath  the  lowest  ter- 
race of  the  garden  the  village  of  Olibanum  was 
huddled  close  under  the  rock:  it  was  very  old, 
with  a narrow,  steep  street  twisting  about 
among  the  houses:  under  them  were  ancient 
massive  foundations  older,  perhaps,  than  Rome 
itself. 

Below  the  little  town  there  were  green 
patches  of  vineyard,  and  olive-brakes  that  clung 
to  the  hillside  like  a grey  cloud.  Far  down, 
the  steeps  sank  into  a broad  valley  flowing  out 


FAUSTULA  107 

between  the  mountains  into  the  ocean  of  the 
campagna  like  a great  estuary. 

“It  is  beautiful,”  said  Melania  in  a low  voice. 

Sabina  took  it  as  a personal  compliment:  it 
was  her  view,  and  she  felt  that  admiration  of  it 
was  a tribute  to  herself.  She  had  not  her 
brother’s  passionate  delight  in  everything 
lovely;  nevertheless  she  was  a Roman,  and  the 
Romans  have  never  been  blind  to  the  beauty 
of  fine  scenery,  as  their  choice  of  sites  for  their 
villas  is  enough  to  show. 

“It  is  not  so  grand  as  your  own  views,”  she 
replied  civilly,  rather  as  though  the  scenery 
about  Melania’s  villa  had  been  invented  by  her- 
self. 

“They  are  so  different  one  can  not  compare 
them,”  said  Melania  truly.  “But  there  is  more 
in  your  view  here.  I should  think  you  could 
see  the  Tomb  of  Hadrian  from  here  on  certain 
days.” 

“So  we  can.  We  do  not  much  like  to  see  it 
— it  generally  means  bad  weather.” 

That  evening  when  her  children  were  with 
her  Melania’s  eldest  son  asked  her  if  there  had 
been  any  Consuls  of  the  family  of  the  Faustuli. 

“I  do  not  think  so,”  she  answered.  “I  do 
not  remember  any : but  you  know  there  were  a 
good  many,  two  every  year  from  the  two  hun- 
dred and  forty-fifth  year  of  the  city.  Why?” 


108 


FAUSTULA 


“Because  Tatius  Faustulus  told  me  such  a 
lot  about  his  family.  They  are  descended 
from  the  Shepherd  who  was  foster-father  of 
Romulus.” 

“His  name,”  Melania  replied  with  cheerful 
non-committal,  “was  certainly  Faustulus.” 
“But  that  would  not  make  the  Faustuli 
royal,”  objected  Christopher.  “He  was  only 
a foster-father.” 

“In  a republic  no  one  is  royal.  The  Em- 
perors themselves  are  not  royal — only  the 
Heads  of  the  Republic.  I hope  you  did  not 
brag  of  the  Consuls  in  your  father’s  family?” 
“No,  I did  not  mention  them.  But,  when 
he  went  on  cramming  the  Faustuli  down  my 
throat,  it  was  a temptation.” 

Melania  laughed. 

“Temptations  are  made  to  be  resisted,  that’s 
what  they’re  for — I’m  sure  Faustula  did  not 
worry  you  about  her  family,  Fabian?” 

“She  did  not  worry  me  about  anything. 
She  is  much  nicer  than  Tatius.” 

“Tatius  did  not  take  much  notice  of  you,” 
observed  his  mother,  with  her  little  bantering 
smile. 

“Take  notice  of  me!  He  is  as  old  as  Chris- 
topher and  not  up  to  my  chin:  a pimply.” 
“Fabian!” 

“Well,  mother,  isn’t  he  pimply?” 


FAUSTULA 


109 


Melania,  unable  to  deny  the  fact,  pointed 
out  that  it  was  not  material. 

“Of  course  he  can’t  help  it,”  Fabian  admit- 
ted; “at  least  I’m  not  sure.  We  should  be 
pimply,  perhaps,  if  we  stuffed  like  that.  Only 
you  wouldn’t  let  us — the  Most  Excellent  Sa- 
bine did  not  seem  to  notice.” 

“It  would  have  been  better  if  you  had  not 
noticed  either.  . . . Come,  Fabian,  I’m  ready 
to  agree  with  you  that  Faustula  is  nicer  than 
Tatius:  and  I’m  glad  you  were  kind  to  her. 
• • • 

“Z  couldn't  be  nice  to  her,”  observed  Chris- 
topher, willing,  like  the  lawyer  in  the  Scrip- 
ture, to  justify  himself,  “Tatius  marched  me 
off.” 

“Well,”  said  Melania,  laughing  again, 
“when  they  come  here  it  will  be  Fabian’s  turn 
to  hear  about  the  Faustuli  and  you  shall  look 
after  Faustula.” 

“H  ’m,”  observed  Fabian. 

“She’s  only  six,”  remarked  Christopher, 
doubtfully. 

“If,”  declared  Fabian,  mutinously,  “Tatius 
tells  me  too  much  about  his  old  Faustuli  I 
shall  fall  into  temptation  and  only  repent  after- 
wards.” 

“Fabian!”  expostulated  his  mother. 

“Yes,  I shall.  There’s  no  use  in  having 


110 


FAUSTULA 


Consuls  and  things  in  one’s  family  if  one  can’t 
pound  them  down  on  Tatiuses.” 

“Tatiuses  isn’t  grammar,”  objected  Chris- 
topher. 

“I  don’t  care:  if  Tatius  Faustulizes  me ” 

“That’s  worse  grammar,”  Melania  sug- 
gested. 

“Never  mind — I’m  not  going  to  be  Faustu- 
lated:  if  Tatius  tries,  I’ll  give  him  Acilius  Gla- 
brio  the  Tribune ” 

“ He  won’t  care,”  cried  Christopher,  trium- 
phantly. “A  Tribune  of  the  plebs  won’t  shut 
him  down.” 

“Ah,  but  he  became  consul,  with  Pullinus 
Cornelius  Scipio,  and  conquered  Antiochus  at 
Thermopylae.  Mother,  did  you  ever  hear  of  a 
Faustulus  who  conquered  Antiochus  at  Ther- 
mopylae?” 

“How  could  he  if  it  was  Acilius  Glabrio  who 
did  it?” 

“Well,  then!  And  I’ll  give  him  Acilius  the 
Praetor,  and  the  bribery  man ” 

Melania  laughed  aloud. 

“And  don’t  forget,”  she  begged,  “the  Acilius 
who  was  accused  of  extortion ” 

“Now,  Melania,”  interposed  a quiet  voice: 
her  husband’s  aunt  had  come  into  the  room  and 
was  listening,  near  the  door,  with  a half -grim 
amusement,  to  this  conversation.  “Now,  Me- 


FAUSTULA  111 

lama!  Remember  Cicero  himself  defended 
him.” 

“Ah!”  cried  Fabian,  gleefully.  “Ah!  Is  it 
likely  Cicero  would  have  defended  him  if  there 
had  been  any  truth  in  the  charge?” 

“I’m  not  prepared  to  say,”  Melania  admit- 
ted. 

“He’ll  do  for  Tatius  anyway,”  her  younger 
son  protested.  “A  Proconsul  in  Sicily,  who 
was  great  Caesar’s  lieutenant  is  good  enough 
for  Tatiuses.” 

“What,”  inquired  Acilia,  “is  all  this  about?” 

“Fabian,”  explained  his  mother,  “is  suffer- 
ing from  an  accession  of  family  pride ” 

“And  Christopher,”  pleaded  Fabian,  “has 
been  suffering  from  an  overdose  of  the  Faus- 
tuli.” 

Christopher  described  what  he  had  under- 
gone, and  Acilia  was  evidently  not  without 
sympathy. 

“Of  course,”  she  said,  “everyone  knows  that 
the  Faustuli  claim  descent  from  the  foster- 
father  of  Romulus:  it  may  be  so:  but  the  fam- 
ily only  rose  into  prominence  during  the  reign 
of  the  Emperor  Nero:  the  Faustulus  of  those 
days  was  a favourite  of  Brazenbeard’s.” 

“That's  not  much,”  remarked  Fabian,  who 
didn’t  admire  the  early  Emperors  and  remem- 
bered very  well  that  the  Emperor  Domitian 


112 


FAUSTULA 


had  forced  his  ancestor  Acilius  Glabrio,  Con- 
sul in  a.  d.  91,  to  fight  unarmed  against  Numid- 
ian  bears  in  his  amphitheatre  at  Albanum. 

“Well,”  said  Melania,  with  the  air  of  closing 
the  subject,  “it  was  not  very  pretty  of  Tatius 
to  talk  too  much  of  his  family.  But  at  all 
events  he  did  it  on  the  spur  of  the  moment : it 
would  be  still  less  pretty  for  either  of  you  boys 
to  try  and  flatten  him,  of  set  purpose,  with  the 
glories  of  the  Acilii.  Remember,  too,  he  has 
lived  alone  with  his  aunt  in  a country  house, 
where  perhaps  there  wasn’t  much  to  talk  about 
except  family  affairs  and  traditions.” 


CHAPTER  XI 


k 


hen  Sabina  took  her  brother  to  visit 


Melania,  and  when  Melania  returned 
the  visit,  neither  lady  probably  imagined  that 
any  particular  intimacy  was  to  result;  and 
perhaps  neither  would  have  much  desired  it. 
But  circumstances  happened  to  lead  them  to 
something  like  intimacy. 

N ot  many  weeks  after  the  beginning  of  their 
acquaintance  word  came  to  Melania  that  there 
was  small-pox  in  the  village  of  Olibanum,  and 
that  some  of  Sabina’s  house-slaves  had  taken 
the  disease.  To  Sabina’s  great  surprise  the 
young  widow  came  over  at  once  to  see  her,  and 
surprised  her  much  more  by  proposing  that 
Tatius  and  Faustula  should  go  back  with  her 
to  the  Villa  Acilia. 

“They  will  be  much  safer  out  of  the  way 
altogether,”  she  said  quietly.  “I  know  how 
big  this  house  is  and  you  would  keep  them  far 
from  the  slaves’  quarters:  still  you  would  feel 
much  easier  about  them  if  they  were  at  Civ- 


Sabina  was  quite  taken  aback  by  the  kind- 
ness of  such  an  offer. 

“But  your  own  children,”  she  objected. 


itella.” 


113 


114 


FAUSTULA 


“Suppose  it  should  turn  out  that  Tatius  and 
Faustula  had  the  infection  and  took  it  with 
them?” 

“At  first  I could  keep  them  apart.  We 
should  know  in  a few  days:  the  western  wing 
of  our  villa  is  quite  shut  off  from  the  rest  of 
the  house,  and  they  and  I would  amuse  each 
other  there  till  we  were  sure  there  was  no  risk. 
If  it  turned  out  that  either  of  them  had  the 
infection  I could  nurse  them  there  without  any 
danger  to  the  others.” 

“And  if  you  caught  it!” 

“My  nurse  would  look  after  me  and  them, 
too.  Placida  is  an  excellent  creature  and  only 
cross  with  us  because  we  are  none  of  us  ever 
ill  to  give  her  a chance  of  curing  us.” 

Sabina  still  hesitated : but  Melania  persisted. 
“All  that  is  veiy  unlikely,”  she  said  simply. 
“Probably  there  is  no  fear  of  anything  of  the 
kind.  Tatius  and  Faustula,  you  have  con- 
fessed, are  perfectly  well  now:  and  after  a few 
days,  when  all  chance  of  their  developing  vari - 
dice  is  over,  they  will  have  my  children  to  play 
with.  If  they  stay  here  you  will  go  on  being 
anxious  on  their  account  till  after  the  last  case 
is  over.” 

Sabina  knew  how  true  this  was.  For  Tatius 
she  dreaded  the  disease  because  she  was,  in  her 
cool  fashion,  really  fond  of  him:  for  Faustula 


FAUSTULA 


115 


she  dreaded  it  because  it  would  disfigure  her 
for  life  and  materially  affect  her  chances  of 
finding  in  time  a suitable  husband.  Sabina 
was  quite  aware  that  the  child  was  beautiful 
and  supposed  she  would  grow  up  so:  she  had 
no  intention  of  giving  or  leaving  her  a large 
dowry,  and  her  beauty  would  constitute  her 
principal  chance  of  making  a good  marriage. 

Originally  Sabina  had  meant  to  give  her 
niece  a pretty  good  dowry,  and  to  give  or  leave 
nothing  to  Tatius:  now,  though  she  really 
meant  to  make  the  boy  her  heir,  she  grudged 
giving  so  much  to  his  sister  as  it  would  be  tak- 
ing the  money  from  him. 

“Melania,”  she  said  with  sincere  gratitude, 
“you  are  very  good.  Too  good,  it  seems  to 
me.” 

“That  is  nonsense,”  Melania  replied  cheer- 
fully. 

Something  in  Sabina’s  face  made  her  want 
to  laugh:  she  surmised  that  no  one  had  ever 
yet  told  that  important  personage  that  any  re- 
mark of  hers  was  nonsense. 

“I  mean,”  she  added,  “it  is  nothing  at  all. 
Come,  Sabina,  let  us  be  good  neighbours.” 

Sabina  knew  that  all  the  goodness  would  be 
on  Melania’s  side,  and  that  did  not  much  please 
her.  To  bestow  favours  was  more  in  her  line 
than  to  receive  them.  All  the  same  she  was  a 


116 


FAUSTULA 


little  touched,  and  she  was  also  too  practical 
not  to  feel  the  extraordinary  convenience  of 
the  plan. 

“You  are  a good  woman,  Melania,”  she  said 
with  more  feeling  than  any  speech  of  hers  had 
expressed  for  years. 

She  was  a good  woman  herself  in  her  way, 
only  her  wealth  and  self-satisfaction  had  stif- 
fened her. 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  Melania  grasped 
it  warmly. 

“No,  my  dear,”  the  younger  widow  an- 
swered with  the  simple  straight- forwardness 
that  was  her  best  charm.  “But  let  me  be  of 
some  little  use  when  an  opportunity  jumps 
up  like  this.  Really  we  would  like  to  have  the 
children.  Come;  say  Yes.” 

“Ah,  but,”  Sabina  urged,  “suppose  they  did 
take  the  infection  to  your  house?  Suppose 
you  did  catch  the  horrible  disease?” 

Melania  laughed  cheerfully. 

“Widows,”  she  said,  “don’t  mind  about  their 
looks.  If  my  poor  Acilius  Glabrio  was  alive 
it  might  be  different.  Up  in  heaven  he  won’t 
despise  me  for  my  spots.” 

“And  if  you  died !”  whispered  Sabina. 

“One  must  die  some  day:  it  wouldn’t  be  a 
bad  way.” 


FAUSTULA 


117 


What  Sabina  could  not  understand  was  the 
cheery,  almost  merry  way  in  which  Melania 
spoke  of  these  solemn  things.  She  was  only 
about  forty-two  herself  and  too  healthy  to  be 
much  afraid  of  death;  but  the  idea  of  it,  when 
it  came  up  in  her  mind,  was  dismal.  She  con- 
stantly thought  about  her  estates,  and  how  she 
would  dispose  of  them,  but,  as  she  supposed  she 
would  herself  be  their  owner  for  so  long  a 
period  yet  that  she  never  tried  to  calculate  it, 
that  did  not  depress  her  in  the  least. 

The  idea  of  talking  of  one’s  own  death,  quite 
comfortably,  as  a matter  perhaps  of  the  near 
future,  struck  her  as  almost  wanting  in  deli- 
cacy, if  it  were  not  indeed  a mere  affectation. 
When  other  people  were  actually  dead  she  had 
no  patience  with  the  sort  of  folly  Faustulus 
had  shown  when  Accia  died  in  refusing  to  dis- 
cuss the  subject:  that  was  undoubtedly  af- 
fected and  indelicate.  There  were  arrange- 
ments to  be  made,  and  recognized  forms  of 
mourning  to  be  observed;  but  then  other  peo- 
ple are  other  people:  and  the  more  one’s  con- 
temporaries die  the  more  one  realizes  one’s  own 
healthy  survival. 

Melania’s  wray  of  speaking  of  the  possibility 
of  her  own  death  rather  helped  Sabina,  who 
had  been  almost  within  measurable  distance  of 


118 


FAUSTULA 


falling  into  sentiment.  It  saved  her.  When 
one  is  braced  by  a sense  of  the  inferiority  of 
people  one  was  nearly  being  compelled  to  re- 
gard as  disagreeably  superior  it  is  stiffening 
and  restorative. 

“I  would  not  think,”  she  declared  beginning 
to  yield,  “of  letting  you  take  Tatius  and  his 
sister  if  there  was  any  real  risk.” 

“There  is  none  whatever.” 

So  Melania  did  take  them:  and  Sabina  was 
grateful  but  not  too  grateful:  not  sentimen- 
tally so.  Melania,  she  thought,  was  sentimen- 
tal, a part  of  her  general  inferiority  as  a Chris- 
tian. 

Faustula  was  delighted  to  go:  her  brother 
was  not  quite  so  well  pleased.  She  already 
loved  to  be  with  Fabian,  and  soon  loved  to  be 
with  his  mother.  Tatius  dutifully  preferred 
his  aunt : and  very  much  preferred  his  own  com- 
pany to  that  of  Christopher.  He  was  rather 
surprised  that  Sabina  let  them  go  to  stay  with 
these  Christians,  and  did  not  altogether  ap- 
prove of  the  plan  himself : he  understood  that 
Christians  had  odd  ways  with  which  it  would 
he  disagreeable  to  have  to  fall  in.  Would  he 
be  expected  to  fast,  for  instance?  All  the 
same  he  did  not  at  all  want  to  catch  small-pox 
and  was  apt  to  be  always  a little  nervous  about 
his  health.  He  imagined  himself  to  be  some- 


FAUSTULA 


119 


what  delicate,  for  he  had  bilious  attacks  now 
and  then,  which  he  did  not  in  the  least  connect 
with  his  habitual  greediness  in  eating  and  fond- 
ness for  rich  dishes. 


CHAPTER  XII 


Faustula  and  Tatius  had  to  stay  about  six 
weeks  with  Melania  and  neither  of  them 
developed  small-pox:  in  less  than  a week  Me- 
lania felt  sure  they  were  not  going  to  be  at- 
tacked, and  their  isolation,  and  her  own,  from 
the  rest  of  the  family  came  to  an  end.  She 
had  never  been  away  from  her  children  for  so 
long,  and  Tatius  was  a good  deal  astonished  by 
the  unbounded  satisfaction  her  sons  displayed 
at  having  her  again  with  them.  Sabina,  he  felt 
sure,  would  agree  with  him  that  it  was  absurd 
and  rather  babyish. 

He  immediately  attached  himself  to  Chris- 
topher, ignoring  Domitilla  altogether  and  Fa- 
bian as  much  as  possible.  So,  for  several 
weeks,  Christopher  had  him  very  much  on  his 
hands.  Of  course  there  were  lessons  to  be  en- 
dured, but  Maltro  had  come  too,  and  Tatius  did 
not  join  the  other  boys  in  theirs.  Melania  was 
careful  not  to  suggest  that  Tatius  should  share 
their  studies  lest  it  should  seem  that  she  was 
putting  liim  under  the  influence  of  her  sons’ 
priestly  tutor,  and  Tatius  himself  showed 
pretty  plainly  that  he  did  not  want  to  see  more 

of  Domnio  than  he  could  help.  It  annoyed 

120 


FAUSTULA 


121 


him  that  Domnio  should  be  so  much  with  them 
in  playtime,  and  that  was  one  reason  why  he 
got  Christopher  to  himself  whenever  he  could. 

“Fabian  is  never  happy  out  of  Domnio’s 
sight,”  he  remarked  one  day. 

“We  are  always  happy  with  him,  both  of  us,” 
Christopher  replied  quietly. 

“Ah,  but  you  don’t  stick  to  him  like  a leech.” 

Christopher  was  too  courteous  to  point  out 
that  Tatius  did  not  leave  him  much  opportunity 
for  sticking  to  anybody  but  himself,  and  said 
nothing. 

“I  suppose  Fabian  is  going  to  be  a priest,” 
Tatius  observed,  as  if  that  might  account  for 
his  fondness  for  Domnio’s  company. 

“Oh,  no.  We  are  both  going  into  the  army.” 

This  slightly  puzzled  Tatius,  who  had  an  idea 
that  in  Christian  families  one  son  at  least  had 
to  be  a priest.  Faustula  and  Domitilla  were 
rather  shy  of  each  other  at  first,  and  looked  at 
one  another  not  so  much  like  two  kittens  meet- 
ing for  the  first  time  as  like  one  kitten  looking 
at  its  own  reflection  in  a mirror.  Not  that  they 
were  much  alike,  for  Domitilla  was  a soft, 
round  little  creature,  very  young  even  for  her 
six  years,  and  Faustula  was  tall  for  her  age 
and  slim,  with  ideas  much  beyond  it,  ideas  born 
of  her  solitary  life. 

Whatever  ideas  Domitilla  had  were  for  the 


122 


FAUSTULA 


public — her  public,  that  is  her  family;  and  she 
was  not  really  shy,  though  she  might  seem  so 
to  a stranger  for  the  first  half-hour.  Faus- 
tula  did  not  strike  Acilia  as  shy,  but  rather  as 
being  wonderfully  self-possessed;  but  she  was 
in  fact  far  shyer  than  her  new  playmate,  for 
she  had  learned  at  home  to  keep  her  thoughts 
to  herself,  and  to  feel  that  they  would  neither 
be  approved  nor  understood.  Even  here  at 
Civitella  she  did  not  lose  her  reserve  quickly 
except  with  Fabian:  she  soon  loved  Melania, 
who  was  very  tender  with  the  motherless  child, 
but  she  had  a true  instinct  that  the  kind,  moth- 
erly lady  did  not  understand  her  as  Fabian 
did.  Melania  did  in  fact  think  Faustula  odd, 
and  too  old  for  her  age. 

“There  is  almost  too  much  to  understand  in 
her,”  she  confided  to  Acilia.  “One  likes  a 
child  to  be  like  a child.  I’m  sure  I was  not  so 
elderly  at  six.” 

“At  six  you  were  a baby,  my  dear,”  said  her 
aunt. 

“And  Domitilla  is  a baby  now — I’m  glad  she 
is.  I should  not  like  her  to  have  such  deep 
silent  eyes  as  Faustula’s.” 

“No,  Melania;  but  Faustula’s  little  life  has 
not  been  like  hers.” 

“Poor  little  thing0  No0  She  has  had  no 
mother.” 


FAUSTULA 


123 


“No  father  either,  you  might  say.  She  has 
had  no  one.  Tatius  cannot  conceal  his  dislike 
of  her,  and  hardly  tries.” 

Oddly  enough  Faustula  took  to  Acilia  and 
liked  to  be  with  her.  That  she  should  love 
Melania  was  inevitable  seeing  that  from  her 
she  received  such  motherly  tenderness  as  she 
had  never  known  till  then:  and  Melania  was 
still  young,  of  a bright,  happy  nature  that 
made  her  seem  even  merry.  The  only  sorrow 
of  her  life  that  was  at  once  very  deep  and 
quite  personal  had  been  the  loss  of  her  clever, 
handsome  husband,  and  that  was  a sacred  al- 
most secret  thing  that  she  kept  like  a relic  in 
her  heart.  Acilia  on  the  other  hand  was 
twenty  years  older  even  than  Sabina,  and  had 
lived  under  the  cruel  shadow  of  persecution. 
Not  only  had  her  own  beloved  husband  been  a 
martyr,  but  many  of  her  kinsfolk,  and  count- 
less friends  had  met  the  same  glorious  but 
tragic  fate.  By  nature  grave  she  lived  in  an 
atmosphere  of  solemn  memories  that  cast  not 
a cloud  but  a certain  half  unearthly  halo  about 
her. 

She  lived  much  in  the  past,  and  accused  her- 
self of  it  as  of  a failing,  earnestly  striving  to 
fulfil  the  duties  of  life,  but  beset  always  by  the 
sense  that  the  common  ways  of  life  seemed  triv- 
ial and  were  certainly  tedious.  Her  time  was 


124 


FAUSTULA 


given  chiefly  to  prayer  and  the  offices  of  re- 
ligion, but  she  would  not  allow  herself  to  let 
such  duties  become  a mere  indulgence  of  her 
own  deep  drawing  to  them. 

It  had  not  occurred  to  her  that  little  Faus- 
tula  and  she  would  have  much  to  do  with  each 
other.  If  Melania  were  busy,  and  the  head  of 
a great  household,  a mistress  of  a great  estate, 
must  often  be  very  busy,  then  she  would  re- 
lieve her  by  taking  the  care  of  the  children  off 
her  hands:  and  in  that  way  the  small  visitor 
might  be  thrown  in  her  way : but  Acilia  took  it 
for  granted  that  she  would  chiefly  have  to  watch 
the  little  girls  at  play,  and  see  they  did  not 
quarrel  and  tease  each  other. 

But  one  day  they  quite  suddenly  became  so 
silent  that  Acilia  presently  looked  across  the 
room  to  see  why  the  childish  voices  had  ceased. 
Faustula  immediately  came  softly  to  her  and 
said: 

“Domitilla  has  gone  to  sleep.” 

Acilia  was  slightly  embarrassed.  Faustula 
stood  by  her  side  and  seemed  disposed  to  stay 
here. 

“What  would  you  like  to  do?”  Acilia  asked 
doubtfully. 

“I  should  like  to  stop  here.” 

“Well,  what  shall  we  play  at?” 


FAUSTULA 


125 


“Don’t  let  us  play.”  Faustula  paused  and 
Acilia’s  embarrassment  did  not  decrease. 

“I  should  like  to  talk,  please,”  the  little  girl 
explained,  and  Acilia  assured  herself  that  Me- 
lania had  been  quite  right  in  saying  she  was  odd. 
But  she  smiled  and  said: 

“What  about?” 

She  f elt  this  was  rather  hard  and  added  hur- 
riedly: “I’m  afraid  I don’t  know  much  about 
games  and  things.  I’m  old,  you  see.” 

“You  don’t  think  about  games  and  things,” 
Faustula  replied  quite  simply. 

Acilia  very  wisely  laughed. 

“No,  I don’t.  Shall  I tell  you,  then,  what  I 
am  Blinking  about  at  this  very  moment?”  she 
asked. 

“Yes,  please.” 

“Well,  I was  thinking  you  are  rather  a 
funny  little  girl.” 

“I  can’t  help  it.” 

The  child  said  this  with  such  a gentle  little 
air  of  apology  that  Acilia’s  heart,  a very  good 
one,  almost  overflowed  her  eyes. 

“My  dear!”  she  cried,  stooping  towards 
Faustula,  and  drawing  her  quickly  closer  to 
her.  “It  is  no  harm  being  funny.  I dare- 
say I was  a queer  little  creature  once.  And 
now,  tell  me  in  return  what  you  are  always 


126  FAUSTULA 

thinking  of?  I often  see  you  looking  at 
me.” 

“I  think,  sometimes,”  Faustula  answered 
with  some  hesitation,  “that  you  are  not  like  my 
aunt  Sabina.” 

As  Acilia  did  not  particularly  wish  to  re- 
semble Sabina  she  was  not  at  all  offended,  but 
hardly  knew  what  to  say  in  response. 

“Is  it  any  harm?”  asked  Faustula;  “my 
thinking  that?” 

“None  whatever.  We  are  not  bound  to  be 
like  one  another.” 

Faustula’s  face  so  clearly  expressed  a con- 
viction that  Acilia  need  not  regret  her  unlike- 
ness to  Sabina  that  the  old  lady  had  some 
difficulty  in  not  smiling  outright. 

“You,  and  she  and  Melania  are  all  widows, 
you  see,”  Faustula  explained.  “Tatius  said 
so.  But  you  are  all  quite  diff  erent.” 

“Quite,”  Acilia  agreed  handsomely. 

“Is  it,”  Faustula  inquired  with  great  diffi- 
dence, “because  they  died  of  different  diseases? 
Sabina’s  husband  died  of  podagra ; I know  Me- 
lania’s did  not.  Fabian  told  me.” 

The  child  paused,  and  her  pause  clearly  con- 
veyed a query.  To  establish  her  theory  it 
would  be  necessary  that  Acilia’s  husband  should 
not  have  fallen  a victim  to  gout  or  to  malaria. 

Acilia  was  undoubtedly  justified  in  saying  to 


FAUSTULA 


127 


herself,  “A  very  queer  child!”  But  the  child’s 
queerness  did  not  repel  her.  Odd  and  old  as 
her  talk  was,  it  was  so  very  young  too;  she 
looked,  even  there,  almost  in  Acilia’s  arms,  so 
lonely,  so  isolated : if  her  talk  was  queer  it  was 
because  she  had  never  had  anyone  to  talk  to 
but  herself. 

“My  husband  did  not  die  of  gout,”  Acilia 
explained  with  a peculiar  feeling  of  doing  so  in 
spite  of  herself. 

Faustula  looked  as  if  she  had  been  sure  of 
it.  But  she  also  looked  as  if  she  were  plainly 
asking  what  he  did  die  of. 

“He  died,”  Acilia  said  in  a low  voice,  “of  be- 
ing a Christian.” 

It  was  nearly  as  odd  a remark  as  any  of 
Faustula’s;  and  Acilia  knew  it.  But,  for  ever 
so  many  reasons,  she  could  not  plainly  say  to 
this  tiny  heathen  that  her  husband  had  been 
killed  by  wild  beasts  in  the  Roman  Amphithea- 
tre. 

What  was  quite  plain  was  that  she  intended 
to  say  no  more.  But  Faustula  had  no  inten- 
tion of  asking  any  further  question.  Clodia 
had  told  her  many  things,  among  the  rest  how 
the  Christians  had  been  treated. 

In  a moment  Faustula’s  face  and  neck,  like 
pure  alabaster  generally,  turned  bright  crim- 
son. 


128 


FAUSTULA 


“We  did  it!”  she  gasped. 

“You!  You,  my  poor  queer  baby.  You! 
No.  No.  No.” 

The  little  girl’s  eyes  were  wide  with  horror 
and  shame,  and  her  lips  were  parted,  not  trem- 
bling, as  if  she  were  about  to  weep,  but  to  emit 
a choking  breath  that  was  like  a noiseless  sob. 
Acilia,  who  was  anything  but  emotional  or  im- 
pulsive, in  an  instant  had  drawn  her  into  her 
arms  and  held  her  close,  with  one  hand  pressing 
the  lovely  little  head  to  her  breast.  Faustula 
could  feel  her  heart  beating. 

Not  another  word  was  said  then:  and  Acilia 
never  told  even  Melania  about  this,  nor  did 
Faustula  ever  speak  about  it  to  Fabian.  But 
the  old  woman  and  the  small  child  were  thence- 
forth friends.  Acilia  often  afterwards  would 
be  quietly  watching  Faustula  as  she  played 
with  Domitilla,  and  sometimes  would  see  her 
steal  a look  towards  herself ; and  that  look  was 
so  strange  that  it  almost  hurt  her.  It  meant 
so  plainly  that  the  child  had  a sense  of  personal 
guiltiness. 

On  one  of  these  occasions  Acilia  simply 
could  not  bear  it,  and  called  Faustula  to  her  on 
some  trivial  pretext. 

“You  must  not,”  she  said  with  a kind  smile, 
“let  Domitilla  have  her  own  way  too  much.” 

She  had  noticed  how  Faustula,  who  was  only 


FAUSTULA 


129 


a few  months  older,  always  treated  Domitilla 
as  if  she  were  much  younger  and  to  be  hu- 
moured, as  big  girls,  if  they  are  specially  kind 
and  gentle,  will  do  with  very  little  ones.  Dom- 
itilla was  not  naughty  or  selfish,  but  wayward 
and  very  willing  to  be  so  indulged. 

When  Acilia  made  this  little  remark  Faus- 
tula  only  smiled  back,  and  looked  up  question- 
ingly  in  her  face,  as  if  she  knew  that  it  did  not 
represent  all  that  she  had  meant  to  say  when 
she  called  her.  But  as  nothing  immediately 
followed  she  said: 

“I  like  playing  with  Domitilla.” 

“But  she  always  chooses  the  games  and  lays 
down  the  law  as  to  how  they  are  to  be  played.” 
“She  knows  more  about  it  than  I do,”  Faus- 
tula  replied  simply.  “I  don’t  know  much 
about  games.  At  home  I had  no  one  to  play 
with.” 

“It  is  a change  for  you  to  be  here.  You  like 
it?” 

“Of  course.  But  . . .” 

“But  what?” 

Faustula  was  gathering  together  the  fimbria 
of  Acilia’s  dress  and  pinching  it  up  like  the 
folds  in  a fan;  one  of  her  rare  blushes  was 
creeping  up  her  half-averted  face.  She  did 
not  want  to  speak,  and  shook  her  small  head 
slightly. 


130 


FAUSTULA 


“Surely  everyone  is  kind  to  you?”  Acilia 
said,  watching  her. 

“Everyone.  Yes.  That’s  it.  Why  should 
you  be  kind  to  us?” 

“We  love  you,”  the  old  woman  answered 
quickly;  she  nearly  added:  “Who  could  help 

loving  you?” 

“I  should  not  if  I were  you.” 

Then  Faustula  stopped  pinching  the  fimbria 
together,  let  it  drop  and  looked  up. 

“If  I were  you  I should  hate  us  and  all 
heathens.”  The  word  she  used  was  “cultores 
deorum  ” but  she  used  it  with  a bitter  emphasis 
that  was  not  complimentary.  “I  should  hate 
to  see  them,”  she  went  on,  “and  I would  never 
speak  to  them.” 

She  spoke  in  her  usual  low  tone,  but  it  was 
by  no  means  gentle  now:  a light  that  was 
fiercely  angry  burned  in  her  large  deep  eyes. 

Acilia  was  startled,  and  the  child’s  words 
smote  her  even  on  the  conscience. 

Did  she,  herself,  in  truth  hate  the  heathens 
who  had  butchered  her  husband?  was  not  the 
sight  of  them  unwelcome  to  her,  had  she  not 
always  avoided  all  intercourse  with  them  so  far 
as  the  conditions  of  Roman  life  allowed  her? 

She  was  too  sincere  a woman  to  lecture  the 
child  at  once  for  her  strange  and  violent  speech, 


FAUSTULA  131 

feeling  thus  uncertain  of  her  own  guiltlessness 
in  the  matter. 

“Z  hate  them,”  Faustula  added  deliberately. 
“Clodia  told  me  things;  but  then  it  seemed  like 
old  stories,  things  in  history — till  I came  here. 
Clodia’s  father  belonged  to  a Christian:  a very 
kind  man,  and  they  cut  his  head  off,  and  all  his 
things  were  sold — that  was  how  my  grand- 
father bought  Clodia  and  her  father.  If  I 
were  you  I should  hate  Tatius  and  me : and  I 
don’t  think  we  ought  to  be  here.  If  we  had 
brought  variolce  we  should  have  done  more 
harm.” 

Acilia  might  well  be  astounded:  Faustula 
had  seldom  made  so  long  a speech  in  her  life 
before,  and  it  was  full  of  an  angry  shame. 

“I  hope,”  said  Acilia,  “you  do  not  talk  like 
that  to  Fabian.” 

“To  Fabian?  No.  He  doesn’t  know  that  I « 
know.  We  never  talk  about  Christians  and 
cultores  deorum  ” 

“I  am  glad.  But,  Faustula,  you  should  not 
talk  like  that  at  all;  because  you  should  not 
think  like  that.” 

“But  I do,”  and  the  child  looked  more  deter- 
mined than  Acilia  had  ever  seen  her.  “We  are 
bad  people.” 

“You  are  not  bad:  but  it  is  bad  to  hate:  and 


132  FAUSTULA 

it  is  not  right  to  speak  against  your  own  peo- 
pled 

“I  will  ask  my  father,”  Faustula  persisted 
coolly.  “He  would  hate  being  cruel — he  was 
angry  with  Tatius  for  treading  on  one  of  the 
dogs,  and  said  it  would  serve  him  right  if  he 
got  bitten.  So  it  would  serve  us  right  if  the 
Christians  cut  our  heads  off.  I wonder  the 
Emperors  do  not  do  it.  That  would  be  jus- 
tice.” 

Acilia  did  her  best  to  put  it  fairly  before  the 
child : but  it  was  hard.  How  could  she  preach 
the  Christian  law  of  love  to  a little  heathen 
without  doing  what  a rigid  sense  of  honour 
made  her  unable  to  do  ? It  seemed  to  her  such 
an  easy  thing  for  a woman  like  herself  to  over- 
bear in  argument  a wee  baby — and  so  unfair; 
and  yet  not  easy  at  all  if  she  might  not  speak 
freely  and  fully  from  the  stand-point  of  her 
own  faith,  if  she  must,  in  a sense,  try  to  ignore 
that  vital  difference  in  their  point  of  view. 
Outside  Christianity  there  is  nothing  nobler 
than  justice:  Faustula,  like  all  noble  children, 
had  a passionate  longing  for  it,  and  could  see 
no  sense  in  pretending  not  to  desire  it  every- 
where. 

Then  Acilia,  who  was  honesty  itself,  hated  to 
preach  what  she  was  doubtful  whether  she  prac- 
tised ; and  tried  to  confine  her  persuasions  to  the 


FAUSTULA 


133 


obvious  point  that  Faustula  should  not  speak 
against  her  own  people  or  hate  them. 

“That’s  not  my  fault,”  the  child  insisted. 
“If  they  are  my  people  I can’t  help  it.  Be- 
sides it  makes  no  difference.  If  they  deserve  it 
they  should  be  punished  all  the  same.” 

“N ot  by  us.  That  is  God’s  aff  air.” 

“The  gods  won’t  trouble  themselves.  Our 
people  did  what  they  did  to  please  theirs.  I 
told  Tatius  once  what  had  been  done  to  the 
Christian  who  owned  Clodia’s  father,  and  he 
said  it  was  all  right:  that  the  gods  would  like 
it.  The  gods  do  queer  things — Clodia  has  told 
me.  And  once  Tatius  got  drunk,  yes  he  did: 
and  he  looked  horrid,  but  he  said  he  d-d-did  it 
out  of  compliment  to  Bacchus.” 

“Faustula,  it  is  not  nice  to  imitate  your 

brother ” 

“My  father  does.” 

“And  it  is  not  nice  to  tell  tales  of  him.” 

“I  didn’t  know  it  was  tales:  if  he  did  it  to 
please  B-b-b-bacchus.” 

Faustula  looked  up  with  a wicked  air  of  in- 
nocence that  even  Acilia  found  it  hard  not  to 
laugh  at.  On  the  whole  she  was  not  sure  that 
small  children  are  so  particularly  easy  to  si- 
lence in  argument. 

Faustula  was  not  old  enough  to  disbelieve  in 
the  existence  of  the  gods,  like  her  father;  but 


134 


FAUSTULA 


she  had  very  strong  likes  and  dislikes,  and  very 
simple  standards  of  admiration  and  scorn,  and 
she  neither  liked  the  gods  nor  revered  them. 

“Your  God,”  she  observed  calmly,  “is  more 
powerful  than  all  the  others?” 

Acilia,  who  did  not  feel  free  to  admit  or 
deny  the  existence  of  “the  others,”  was  cer- 
tainly not  able  to  combat  Faustula’s  sugges- 
tion. 

“If  I were  him,”  the  child  declared,  “I  would 
teach  them  something.” 

At  that  moment  Melania  came  into  the  room, 
and  Acilia  had  seldom  been  better  pleased  to 
see  her.  She  gave  Faustula  a look  which  the 
child  understood  very  well:  it  meant  “I  can’t 
say  any  more,  but  I don’t  approve  at  all  of 
your  ideas”;  and  Faustula  smiled  unrepent  - 
antly  and  went  back  to  Domitilla. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


IT  will  be  seen  that  Faustula  by  no  means  in- 
flicted herself  on  Fabian  as  her  brother  in- 
flicted himself  on  Christopher.  As  seemed 
natural  to  her  elders,  she  was  more  with  Dom- 
itilla  than  with  Fabian.  Nevertheless  she 
often  was  with  him,  and  when  he  and  she  were 
alone  she  had  her  happiest  hours.  She  adored 
him  as  the  most  perfect  of  human  beings,  never 
teasing  him  to  give  her  more  of  his  company 
but  profoundly  grateful  and  content  when  he 
gave  it  to  her.  She  liked  Christopher  veiy 
well,  but  thought  very  little  about  him,  and 
perhaps  concluded  that  he  could  not  be  so  nice 
as  his  brother  or  Tatius  would  not  have  stuck 
to  him  so  closely. 

As  a matter  of  fact  Tatius  did  not  care  much 
for  Christopher,  but  merely  preferred  him  to 
anyone  else  at  the  Villa  Acilia. 

After  they  had  been  Melania’s  guests  for 
some  weeks  another  guest  arrived  whose  com- 
ing upset  Faustula:  this  was  a cousin  of  Fa- 
bian’s and  Christopher’s,  called  Csecilia,  who 
stayed  about  ten  days.  She  was  a good  seven 
years  younger  than  Melania,  but  like  her  a 
widow,  having  married  very  young  and  lost 

135 


136  FAUSTULA 

her  husband  after  a year  or  two  of  wedded 
life. 

Csecilia  was  the  most  beautiful  person  Faus- 
tula  had  ever  seen,  and  the  most  splendid. 
The  little  girl  at  once  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  she  was  not  the  same  sort  of  Christian  as 
the  Acilii  Glabriones,  but  fond  of  the  pleas- 
ures and  distinctions  of  this  life,  rich  and  de- 
termined to  enjoy  her  wealth,  complacent  of 
her  rank,  and  calmly  aware  of  her  wonderful 
beauty.  Faustula  made  up  her  mind  too,  that 
Acilia  did  not  admire  this  kinswoman  of  Me- 
lania’s, and  that  Melania  herself,  who  was  al- 
ways courteous  and  hospitable,  did  not  par- 
ticularly enjoy  her  visit,  which  it  appeared 
Csecilia  had  herself  proposed.  As  for  Chris- 
topher, his  grown-up  cousin  took  slight  notice 
of  him:  but  to  Fabian  she  devoted  much  of  her 
attention.  Apparently  she  took  it  for  granted 
that  he  was  to  entertain  her. 

“I  don’t  want,”  she  observed  with  an  easy 
air  of  settling  all  such  arrangements  for  her- 
self, “to  interrupt  your  business,  Melania,  or 
Acilia’s  prayers.  Fabian  shall  look  after  me.” 

Fabian  seemed  extremely  willing.  He  also 
thought  Csecilia  the  most  beautiful  person  he 
had  ever  seen,  and  hovered  about  her  with  a 
devotion  that  amused  his  mother  and  slightly 
irritated  Acilia.  His  frank  admiration  did  not 


FAUSTULA 


137 


at  all  displease  its  object,  who  was  perfectly 
content  to  afford  satisfaction  when  it  could  be 
done  without  the  least  eff  ort  on  her  part.  She 
smiled  graciously  on  the  boy  and  let  him  make 
himself  as  useful  as  possible.  At  six-and- 
twenty  she  probably  felt  herself  old  enough  to 
be  his  grandmother.  At  least  she  said  so. 

“Boys  of  twelve,”  she  remarked  tranquilly 
to  Melania,  “always  do  fall  in  love  with  the 
grandmothers — or  someone  else’s.” 

Melania  laughed  and  was  not  much  dis- 
turbed. Csecilia  was  only  staying  a week  or  so, 
and  Fabian  was  not  likely  to  break  his  heart. 
In  a very  few  years  he  would  be  far  from  her, 
his  mother ; he  could  not  always  be  at  her  side, 
and  she  felt  a quiet  certainty  that  he  would 
never  out  of  her  sight  do  anything  that  it 
would  hurt  her  to  know  of.  Meanwhile  a boy’s 
frank  admiration  for  such  a mature  and  experi- 
enced lady  as  his  cousin  would  do  him  no 
harm. 

Csecilia  was  fond  of  talking  and  talked  very 
well.  She  would  sit  reclining  in  a splendid 
way  and  tell  Fabian  about  all  sorts  of  inter- 
esting things,  and  he  would  sit  near  her  on  the 
floor  listening  with  absorbed  appreciation.  If 
Domitilla  and  Faustula  were  playing  in  a cor- 
ner the  latter  would  watch  them  with  observ- 
ant, jealous  eyes.  There  was  nothing  what- 


138 


FAUSTULA 


ever  in  Cecilia’s  talk  that  Melania  would 
have  disapproved.  It  did  not  in  the  least 
alter  its  tone  or  subject  if  she  happened  to 
come  into  the  room,  and  she  would  often  on 
such  occasions  pause  to  listen  herself. 

Cascilia’s  husband  had  been  Pro-Consul  in 
Spain  and  nothing  strange  or  interesting  had 
escaped  her  notice : but  she  was  never  prosy  or 
long-winded;  from  one  subject  she  would 
glance  off  to  another  almost  too  soon.  Then 
she  was  not  vain:  proud  she  undoubtedly  was, 
but  vanity  implies  self-consciousness  and 
Csecilia  did  not  seem  self-conscious.  Her 
beauty,  her  wealth  and  her  rank  were  all  agree- 
able to  her,  but  she  took  them  all  for  granted 
as  if  it  was  a matter  of  course  she  should  be 
beautiful  and  rich  and  noble. 

All  the  same  Faustula  detested  her.  If  they 
had  been  of  the  same  age  the  little  girl  could 
not  have  been  more  jealous. 

She  hated  Fabian  for  admiring  her,  hated 
him  passionately  and  loved  him  passionately 
all  in  the  same  breath.  Acilia  she  became 
much  fonder  of  because  she  was  sure  Acilia 
did  not  like  this  smooth,  magnificent  person 
who  had  come  up  from  Pome  to  spoil  every- 
thing. 

Christopher  was  slightly  puzzled  at  this  time 
by  receiving  more  signs  of  appreciation  from 


FAUSTULA 


139 


his  brother’s  little  friend  than  she  had  ever 
shown  him  before.  Fabian  noticed  it  and  was 
glad,  for  he  had  been  annoyed  that  Faustula 
seemed  rather  blind  to  Christopher’s  kindness 
and  good-will. 

That  Faustula  was  not  quite  so  good  as  she 
had  been,  Melania  and  Acilia  observed  too,  but 
they  did  not  attach  any  special  significance  to 
it;  little  girls  will  be  cross  sometimes,  and 
heathen  little  girls  can  no  more  be  expected  to 
be  always  at  their  best  than  Christian  little 
girls.  Nor  was  Faustula  cross  with  them,  or 
with  Christopher;  it  was  merely  that  she  now 
never  went  near  Fabian,  and  excused  herself 
coldly  if  he  happened  to  propose  himself  as  her 
playmate,  and  was  slightly  more  odd  and  old 
in  her  ways. 

Csecilia  was  rather  kind  to  the  little  girl,  or 
tried  to  be ; but  very  little  girls  were  not  much 
in  her  line;  she  had  no  children  and  frankly 
declared  that  she  would  not  have  known  what  to 
do  with  them  if  she  had.  Faustula  would 
have  none  of  her  patronage  and  showed  it  al- 
most venomously.  Caecilia  did  not  mind  and 
assured  herself  there  was  so  much  trouble 
saved. 

“Our  small  friend  has  a temper,”  she  tran- 
quilly informed  Melania.  “I  have  met  her 
father  in  Rome,  lately.  A pleasant  man  and 


140  FAUSTULA 

cultivated.  She  does  not  inherit  her  bad  man- 
ner from  him.” 

“He  came  here  one  day  with  Sabina,  our 
neighbour  at  Olibanum.  He  is  certainly  a 
good-tempered  man.  But  Faustula  is  not  by 
any  means  an  ill-tempered  child ” 

“Bilious  perhaps : I should  give  her  a dose  of 
aloes  and  let  her  know  she  is  to  have  it.  They 
used  to  give  it  me  when  I was  a child,  till  I per- 
ceived that  it  was  apt  to  follow  on  an  attack  of 
sulks  and  gave  over  being  bilious.” 

Melania  would  not  even  agree  that  Faustula 
was  bilious. 

“Tatius  is,”  she  admitted:  “but  he  eats  very 
little  and  only  plain  things ” 

Csecilia  did  not  care  in  the  least  what  any- 
body ate  except  herself,  and  turned  the  con- 
versation from  Faustula  to  her  father. 

“They  say  in  Rome  he  is  going  to  marry 
again — Tullia,  the  daughter  of  Cornelius  Tul- 
lius: she  is  very  handsome  but  not  rich,  and 
people  thought  he  would  look  about  for 
money.” 

Melania  did  not  care  much  for  gossip,  but 
this  matter  interested  her,  for  she  wondered 
how  it  would  aff ect  Faustula. 

“I  hope  she  is  a kind  woman,”  she  said.  “It 
would  make  a great  difference  if  Faustula  had 
a really  good  stepmother.” 


FAUSTULA 


141 


Csecilia  laughed  a little. 

“Tullia  is  hardly  a woman  at  all;  but  a 
highly  fashionable  young  lady  of  eighteen.  I 
should  think  the  idea  of  being  a stepmother 
had  not  entered  into  her  calculations.  Nobody 
in  Rome  remembers  the  existence  of  your  Ta- 
tius  and  F austula,  and  the  other  one  lives  with 
her  aunt  Domitia  who  was  a Vestal.” 

Melania  pondered  this  news  in  her  mind,  and 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  Faustula  would 
probably  go  on  living  with  Sabina. 

When  Csecilia’s  visit  came  to  an  end  nobody 
minded  much  except  Fabian,  who  missed  her 
badly  at  first.  Having  now  more  time  at  his 
own  disposal,  he  tried  to  make  up  for  any  slight 
neglect  of  Faustula  that  Csecilia’s  presence  had 
occasioned. 

“Come  into  the  garden,”  he  proposed,  meet- 
ing her  in  the  atrium,  “it  is  quite  a long  time 
since  you  have  been  there  with  me.” 

“No,  thank  you.  I am  looking  for  Domi- 
tilla.” 

“Domitilla  is  asleep.  Come  along.” 

But  F austula  would  not  go,  and  chose  to  go 
in  search  of  Clodia.  Fabian  stood  by  the  im- 
pluvium  watching  her  as  she  hurried  away  with- 
out looking  back.  He  knew  she  could  have 
come  with  him  if  she  had  chosen,  and  he  was 
rather  hurt  at  her  brusque  refusal.  He  had 


142 


FAUSTULA 


never  lost  the  tender  chivalrous  feeling  of  pity 
and  affection  that  had  come  into  his  heart  on 
the  day  of  their  first  meeting,  and  he  could 
not  help  knowing  that  he  had  always  been  very 
kind  to  her.  His  conscience  did  not  accuse  him 
of  having  been  less  kind  during  the  last  ten 
days ; though  he  had  not  seen  so  much  of  her  it 
had  not  been  his  fault,  for  Csecilia  had  chosen 
to  take  up  a great  deal  of  his  time,  and,  if  he 
had  been  willing  enough,  it  would  hardly  have 
been  possible  to  act  differently  even  if  he  had 
cared  less  about  it.  Caecilia  was  his  mother’s 
guest,  and  Melania  herself  was  really  much 
occupied  with  the  care  and  management  of  her 
great  household,  and  of  the  estate:  and  Acilia 
was  not  in  his  cousin’s  line.  When  Csecilia 
spoke  to  her  it  was  always  with  great  respect, 
but  rather  as  if  she  were  addressing  an  elderly 
priest  who  knew  nothing  about  her  world. 

Then  Fabian  could  not  forget  that  when  he 
had  tried  to  devote  himself  to  Faustula  of  late, 
she  had  almost  invariably  made  some  excuse, 
and  that  either  petulantly  or  coldly.  He  was 
hurt  and  troubled,  but  quite  unable  to  account 
for  her  altered  demeanour. 

An  hour  afterwards  he  was  in  the  garden 
alone:  leaning  over  the  parapet  of  the  broad 
terrace  where  he  had  first  met  Faustulus.  He 
also  had  now  heard  that  Sabina’s  brother  was 


FAUSTULA 


143 


going  to  be  married  again,  and  wondered 
whether  Faustula  knew.  He  was  well  aware 
that  she  had  expected  after  her  father’s  first 
visit  to  see  him  often,  and  he  guessed  that  this 
new  marriage  would  probably  keep  them  apart. 
All  the  more  it  behooved  him  to  make  up  to 
her  while  he  could  for  the  neglect  of  others. 
Thus  he  came  to  reproach  himself  for  his  own 
neglect  fairly  or  unfairly. 

“It  is  mean  to  measure  and  weigh  all  little 
petty  rights  and  wrongs,”  the  boy  told  him- 
self. “I  have  hurt  her  and  she  would  not  think 
of  hurting  me.” 

He  raised  himself  and  stood  upright,  gazing 
out  across  the  marvellous  chasm  of  beauty  that 
lay  beneath,  without  heeding  or  seeing  it.  He 
was  wondering  where  she  was,  how  he  could 
find  her,  and  beg  her  pardon  without  the  least 
hint  that  anyone  but  himself  was  in  the  wrong. 

Then  he  turned  and  his  eyes  fell  on  the 
broad  white  terrace  where  his  shadow  lay  at 
his  feet.  Another  shadow,  much  taller,  lay 
there  also,  and  was  so  strange  that  it  startled 
him — that  of  a tall  man  pointing:  the  left  hand, 
with  outstretched  fingers,  was  about  level  with 
the  man’s  waist,  the  right  was  lifted  higher, 
and  pointed  along  the  terrace.  In  the  palm 
of  each  shadowed  hand  was  a bright  spot,  as 
if  the  sun  shone  through  a hole  in  it. 


144 


FAUSTULA 


Fifty  yards  away,  close  to  the  parapet,  a 
wild  olive  had  grown  up  where  there  had  been 
once  a crack,  and  where  was  now  a narrow 
cleft,  in  the  ancient  flagging  of  the  pavement. 
J ust  beyond  the  tree,  almost  hidden  by  it,  was  a 
beautiful  seat  of  carved  marble.  Thither  the 
hand,  with  the  shining  cleft,  was  pointing. 

Without  asking  himself  why,  or  why  his 
heart  was  choking  him,  Fabian  stooped  and  in 
an  instant  had  pulled  off  his  sandals;  then  he 
ran,  swiftly  and  without  a sound,  for  his  bare 
feet  on  the  marble  pavement  made  none,  and 
he  held  his  loose  garments  close  about  him. 

On  the  parapet,  behind  the  wild-olive,  stood 
little  Faustula : she  could  not  have  climbed  up 
upon  it  but  for  the  marble  seat.  Her  small 
body  was  bent  slightly  forward,  her  arms  were 
lifted  to  the  height  of  her  shoulders,  the 
glorious  sun  made  her  wonderful  hair  like  cop- 
per, gilded  here  and  there,  and  her  white  rai- 
ment was  like  snow  against  the  dazzling  blue 
of  the  sky. 

Fabian  knew  now  why  his  heart  was  choking 
him.  It  was  a marvel  that  the  child  could  so 
stand  without  falling  from  sheer  giddiness; 
from  the  parapet  the  precipice  leapt  down  hun- 
dreds of  feet  to  the  green  amphitheatre  below. 
And  Fabian  knew,  somehow,  that  if  she  fell  it 
would  be  by  no  accident.  Even  then  he  could 


FAUSTULA 


145 


think:  “Thank  the  dear  Christ  that  I flung 

the  sandals  off.”  The  smallest  sound  close  be- 
hind her  and  Faustula  would  have  jumped. 

There  was  a sound,  but  from  another  part 
of  the  garden  where  some  of  the  slaves  were 
at  work,  and  they  sang  together. 

“Salve!  Salve!  Christe  Noster,  Salve!  Libera 
nos!  Rex  ac  Redemptor  Noster,  Salve!  Libera 
servos  catenatos,  Dom’ne!  Salve  Majestatis 
Rex;  O servos  caecos  libera.’’  The  words  were 
pathetic  enough  in  their  mouths,  but  the  voices 
were  loud  and  cheerful,  broken  into  a sort  of 
rude  swing  or  rhythm  not  by  the  proper 
cadence  of  the  syllables  themselves,  but  by  the 
work  they  accompanied. 

Faustula  could  have  heard  them  just  as 
plainly  as  Fabian  had  she  chosen  to  listen,  but 
she  heard  without  heeding;  the  men  were  out 
of  sight  and  not  near.  The  turmoil  of  her 
angry  little  mind  was  not  concerned  with  slaves, 
or  with  their  God  who  had  been  crucified  like 
a slave,  but  with  her  own  fierce  misery. 

“Faustula!  Faustula!” 

It  must  not  be  imagined  that  Fabian  stood 
still  listening  or  watching,  or  that  he  cried  out 
till  he  had  Hung  his  strong  young  arms  around 
the  child  and  held  her  in  them  safely:  neither 
did  he  give  her  any  chance  of  struggling  out 
of  them  till  he  had  snatched  her  off  the  parapet 


146 


FAUSTULA 


and  set  her  on  the  ground.  Even  as  he  did 
this  he  shuddered  to  notice  that  the  very  stone 
on  which  she  had  been  standing  was  loose  and 
unsteady. 

“Faustula!  Faustula!” 

She  could  not  see  him  yet ; but  his  voice  was 
the  voice  she  knew  best  and  loved  best  of  any 
in  the  world. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


Of  what  she  had  meant  to  do  he  never  asked 
her,  nor  did  he  reproach  her  except  by 
those  two  words:  that  gasping,  horrified  cry- 
ing of  her  own  name.  She  did  not  thank  him 
for  having  saved  her,  but  she  never  forgot  it: 
neither  did  she  ever  forget  the  expression  of 
his  face  as  she  had  seen  it  when  he  loosened  his 
hold  and  she  was  able  to  turn  round  and  look 
at  him.  At  first  she  only  saw  his  feet;  and 
that  they  were  naked.  That  was  why  he  had 
been  able  to  come  near  without  her  hearing. 

“How  did  you  know?”  she  asked,  lifting  her 
eyes  slowly  to  his. 

“I  was  sent.” 

“Who  sent  you?”  she  demanded,  with  a 
quick,  half-angry  suspiciousness. 

“Christus  Noster  Pastor  et  Salvator,”  he  re- 
plied. “Come,  I will  show  you.” 

Holding  her  tenderly  by  one  hand  he  led  her 
back  along  the  terrace  where  his  sandals  lay: 
but  there  was  no  shadow  there  now.  But  he 
told  her  what  he  had  seen. 

“So  you  did  not  come  of  yourself,”  she  said 
grudgingly. 

“I  was  coming;  only  I did  not  know  where  to 

147 


148 


FAUSTULA 


look  for  you.  I should  have  gone  indoors  to 
find  you  but  for  the  shadow.” 

He  shuddered  again  thinking  what  would 
have  happened  if  he  had  gone  indoors. 

The  slaves  were  singing  still  loudly  and 
cheerily. 

“Salve!  Salve!  Christe  Noster  Salve ! 
Redempti,  liberati,  gratias  ac  laudes 
Agninus  tibi  ex  catenis  fractis  . . .” 

Then  the  boy  told  her  how  he  was  coming  to 
find  her  and  beg  her  pardon  for  having  hurt 
her,  how  he  did  not  know — would  she  tell  him? 
— No,  she  never  told  him.  Neither  did  she  tell 
him  that  it  was  to  hurt  him  she  had  suddenly 
determined  to  do  that  from  which  he  had  saved 
her.  She  could  not  help  following  him, 
though  carefully  keeping  out  of  sight,  when 
he  had  gone  out  into  the  garden:  loving  him 
bitterly,  hating  him  sweetly,  longing  to  be  near 
him,  too  proud  to  go  to  him:  to  make  him  feel 
such  misery  as  her  own  she  had  been  willing  to 
fling  herself  out  of  all  reach  of  him  for  ever. 
But  she  never  told  him. 

She  knew  him  too  well  to  think  he  would  tell 
anyone,  even  Melania,  of  how  he  had  saved  her 
and  from  what.  Had  she  had  the  least  doubt 
she  would  have  been  too  proud  to  ask  him  to 
keep  her  secret. 


FAUSTULA 


149 


“Whom  do  you  love  best?”  she  demanded 
suddenly.  “After  Melania  and  Christopher  I 
mean.” 

“You,  of  course.”  He  answered  simply, 
without  a moment’s  doubt  or  hesitation. 

“Then  stop  begging  my  pardon.” 

Presently  he  led  her  round  the  tall  hedge  of 
myrtle  towards  the  little  group  of  slaves  who 
had  been  singing.  There  were  four  of  them, 
an  old  blind  gardener,  Felix,  his  sons  Donus 
and  Vitalis,  and  an  orphan  lad,  Sergius:  that 
night  Fabian  said  to  his  mother: 

“Did  I ever  ask  you  for  a gift?” 

“Never,  my  son.  You  are  not  one  who  is 
eager  to  possess  things.” 

“But  I want  you  to  give  me  something — 
worth  a good  deal  of  money.  As  it  is  the  first 
time  you  will  not  refuse?” 

“No,  of  course.  If  it  is  something  I can 
buy.  How  mysterious  we  are!” 

Fabian  laughed  a little  as  she  had  done,  and 
said: 

“It  is  nothing  you  would  have  to  buy.  But 
something  that  belongs  to  you  already.” 

“Well!  I have  promised.” 

“You  know  the  four  slaves  Felix,  Donus, 
Vitalis  and  Sergius  who  work  in  the  gardens. 
I want  you  to  give  them  their  freedom.” 
Melania  would  not  say  No,  having  given  her 


150 


FAUSTULA 


word.  But  she  was  a little  puzzled:  none  of 
her  slaves  were  unhappy  and  discontented. 
She  paused  a moment  to  see  if  Fabian  would 
explain : but  he  only  waited  and  off ered  no  ex- 
planation: and  Melania  was  one  of  those  rare 
parents  who  do  not  cross-question  their  chil- 
dren. 

“They  shall  be  freed,”  she  said  quietly. 
“But  if  they  wish  to  go  away  we  must  do  some- 
thing for  them:  it  would  not  be  very  kind  send- 
ing them  out  helpless  and  unprovided  into  free- 
dom.” 

“I  do  not  suppose  they  will  want  to  go  away. 
If  they  stay  they  will  be  freedmen,  that  is  all.” 
“Have  they  said  anything  to  you?” 

“Oh,  no.  If  they  had  I should  have  told  you 
at  once.  It  is  an  idea  of  my  own.  Does  it 
seem  to  you  unjust?” 

“Unjust.  No.  If  they  are  made  free  it 
will  be  a gift — your  gift.  One  cannot  give 
alike  to  everyone.” 

“Your  gift  though.  Not  mine.” 

When  the  four  slaves  were  given  their  free- 
dom it  was  with  the  ancient  usages  only  mod- 
ified slightly  as  became  a rite  performed  in 
church,  for  it  was  done  in  the  chapel  of  the 
villa.  Faustula  begged  to  see  it,  but  Melania 
reluctantly  refused.  Whether  Sabina  would 
have  objected  she  was  not  sure:  but  she  felt 


FAUSTULA  151 

bound  to  do  nothing  that  might  be  disap- 
proved. 

As  it  turned  out  Felix  and  his  sons  asked  to 
stay  where  they  were  and  be  employed  as  f reed- 
men.  Sergius  made  a petition. 

“When  you  go  to  the  army,”  he  begged  of 
Fabian,  “may  I go  with  you?” 

Fabian  liked  the  lad,  who  was  only  two  or 
three  years  older  than  himself,  intelligent  and 
of  a merry,  cheerful  disposition,  and  promised 
that  if  Melania  consented  it  should  be  so. 

“I,  too,”  he  said  earnestly,  “ask  something. 
Will  you  and  the  others  to  whom  the  Most 
Illustrious  Lady  Melania  has  given  freedom 
pray  always  for  the  liberation  of  someone 
else?” 

Of  course  Sergius  promised,  and  Felix  and 
his  sons  promised  too. 

On  the  night  after  this  ceremony  Melania 
came  into  the  talbrium  where  Acilia  and  the 
three  boys  were  sitting,  and  stood  smiling  in 
the  midst  of  them.  Her  face  had  a strange 
gravity  over  which  her  smile  hung  like  a ten- 
der, clear  veil. 

“I  have  come,”  she  said,  “to  say  good-bye  to 
you  all  for  a short  time:  perhaps  a few  days 
only:  we  shall  see.  It  may  be,  however,  for 
some  weeks.” 

Her  tone  was  so  quietly  cheerful  that  Acilia 


152 


FAUSTULA 


and  Melania’s  sons  were  not  startled,  but  the 
idea  of  her  going  away,  even  on  a short  ab- 
sence, disturbed  them  all. 

“What  is  it?  Have  you  to  go  to  Rome?” 
Acilia  asked  hastily. 

“Let  me  go  with  you,”  Fabian  begged.  He 
was  always  impulsive  and  eager ; then  he  pulled 
himself  up  for  he  had  no  right  to  ask  to  be 
taken  instead  of  his  brother.  He  looked 
quickly  at  Christopher  with  a smile  of  apology 
and  Christopher  smiled  back:  between  the  two 
brothers  there  was  never  the  least  jealousy. 

“I  am  going  nowhere,”  Melania  explained 
at  once.  “It  is  just  this.  Clodia  has  been 
taken  ill.  Most  wisely  she  would  not  go  near 
Faustula  the  moment  she  felt  unwell  and  let 
Domitilla’s  nurse  put  both  the  little  girls  to 
bed.  She  still  sleeps  in  the  room  she  had  at 
first  in  the  other  wing.  And  there  I am  just 
now  going  to  see  her:  if  it  turns  out  as  I ex- 
pect I shall  stay  there:  so  you  will  not  see  me 
till  we  know  it  is  all  right.” 

“What  do  you  expect?” 

“From  what  they  describe  I think  she  is  go- 
ing to  have  small-pox.” 

Nobody  argued  with  her.  Acilia  had  al- 
ways the  utmost  confidence  in  her  wisdom,  and 
would  not  say  a word  to  make  the  two  boys 
more  anxious.  It  was  clear  that  somebody 


FAUSTULA 


153 


must  nurse  Clodia,  and  Acilia  had  a calm  con- 
viction that  in  that  house  the  highest  duty 
would  be  performed  by  the  highest  person  in  it. 

“Of  course  Placida  would  be  eager  to  nurse 
her,”  Melania  went  on  in  her  quiet,  cheerful 
way;  “though  she  would  not  feel  the  same 
nursing  her  as  if  it  were  one  of  us.  But  it  was 
my  doing  bringing  Clodia  here,  and  if  there 
is  any  risk  it  is  my  business.” 

As  Acilia  would  have  felt  exactly  the  same 
she  could  not  argue  the  matter.  What  could 
Christopher  or  Fabian  say?  They  could  not 
nurse  a young  female  slave! 

“So,”  said  Melania,  “here  I am  to  say — 
good-night.  Good-night  for  a day  or  two  per- 
haps. We  shall  soon  know.  Tatius,  I’m 
afraid  it  will  be  good-bye  to  you:  you  and 
Faustula  must  go  back  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning.  There  have  been  no  more  cases  at 
Olibanum  and  it  is  six  weeks  since  you  came. 
I brought  you  here  to  be  quite  safe  and  I must 
send  you  away  to  be  quite  safe.  Acilia,  will 
you  write  to  Sabina  for  me — ? And  Fabian, 
say  good-bye  to  Faustula  for  me.  Now  I’m 
going.  Good-night,  Acilia,  bless  me  please.” 
She  knelt  by  the  old  woman’s  side  and  they 
embraced,  as  they  did  every  night:  then  Me- 
lania embraced  her  tw^o  boys,  and  blest  them. 
“Good-bye,  Tatius.  Tell  Sabina  how  rude 


154 


FAUSTULA 


I feel  in  sending  you  and  Faustula  off  so  sud- 
denly. But  it  is  best,  isn’t  it?” 

“Yes,”  said  Tatius.  “It  is  best.” 

He  hung  back  a little  as  if  the  fact  that  his 
hostess  would  presently  he  with  the  infected 
Clodia  made  her  dangerous:  everyone  in  the 
room  noticed  and  understood,  and  Fabian 
flushed  angrily.  Christopher  was  ashamed  for 
his  friend  and  tried  not  to  look  at  him. 

Melania  could  not  help  being  amused  by  the 
silly  cowardice  of  the  selfish  boy,  but  took  care 
not  to  frighten  him  further  by  going  near  him. 

Her  own  boys  went  out  with  her  into  the 
peristylium,  and  knelt  again  for  her  blessing. 
She  knelt  with  them,  an  arm  round  each  of 
theirs. 

“Poor  little  Faustula  !”  she  said.  With  such 
a brother,  and  scarcely  any  father  the  thought 
of  her  loneliness  hurt  her.  “Kiss  her  for  me, 
both  of  you,”  she  cried.  Then  she  kissed  her 
sons  for  themselves,  and  laughing  lightly,  al- 
ways with  her  incomparable  grave  cheerful- 
ness, got  up  and  hurried  to  her  duty.  They 
never  saw  her  again — till  they  saw  their  father 
too. 


CHAPTER  XV 


The  reader  may  be  told  at  once,  what  was 
never  known  to  Melania’s  family  or  to 
Sabina,  how  Clodia  developed  small-pox  so 
many  weeks  after  she,  Faustula  and  Tatius  had 
been  received  at  Civitella,  when  all  fear  of  in- 
fection seemed  out  of  the  question. 

To  explain  this  the  reader  must  be  reminded 
that  Maltro  accompanied  his  pupil,  and  more 
must  be  said  about  that  clever  young  man  than 
has  been  necessary  till  now.  At  the  time  of 
Accia’s  death  he  was  about  twenty-nine,  and 
thirty  when  he  went  with  his  young  master  to 
the  Villa  Acilia. 

He  was  vain  of  his  talents,  not  without  rea- 
son, for  he  was  unusually  intelligent,  quick  to 
acquire  knowledge  and  tenacious  of  retaining 
it:  but  his  wits  were  shallow.  Nevertheless 
had  better  chances  come  in  his  way  he  might 
have  been  even  brilliant.  He  was  vainer  of 
his  good  looks,  which  were  not  of  any  uncom- 
mon order : you  may  see  a hundred  young  men 
as  handsome  in  any  Roman  street  any  day  of 
your  life.  His  eyes  were  large  and  bright, 
perfectly  black,  but  not  deep,  with  the  black- 
ness not  of  a clear,  deep  water,  but  of  a 

155 


156 


FAUSTULA 


shallow  drop  of  ink.  His  chin  was  sharp  and 
too  small,  his  nose  well-shaped,  but  over  thin 
and  aquiline : his  skin  was  smooth  and  perfectly 
colourless,  without  any  of  that  rich  olive,  shad- 
ing to  brown,  so  usual  in  the  south.  His 
mouth  was  finely  formed,  but  too  small,  and 
the  lips  did  not  accord:  for  the  upper  was  too 
full  and  the  lower  too  thin.  Such  mouths  are 
also  seen  by  the  hundred  in  any  street  of  Na- 
ples or  Rome,  and  their  significance  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  divine:  they  belong  to  young  men  who 
are  at  once  self-indulgent  and  mean. 

At  Olibanum  there  was  one  person  who  ad- 
mired Maltro  as  much  as  he  admired  himself : 
one  of  the  house-slaves  called  Didia,  a girl 
some  three  years  younger  than  Clodia,  but  very 
unlike  her  in  every  way.  She  was  pretty  but 
by  no  means  beautiful,  jealous,  cruel  and  pas- 
sionate. Maltro  was  not  in  love  with  her,  but 
her  obvious  admiration  for  himself  flattered 
him,  and  he  enjoyed  flirting  with  her:  the  more 
jealous  she  showed  herself  the  more  he  enjoyed 
it.  On  the  other  hand  he  really  was  in  love 
with  Clodia,  as  much  as  such  a fellow  can  be 
truly  in  love  with  anyone:  and  Clodia’s  in- 
difference only  made  him  think  the  more  of 
her. 

Clodia  was  not  of  the  love-making  sort. 
Her  sad  story  had  cured  her  of  all  that:  and 


FAUSTULA 


157 


her  blind  devotion  to  F austulus  had  first  ceased 
to  be  blind  and  then  had  slowly  ceased  itself. 
The  only  love  left  in  her  was  for  Faustula, 
who  loved  her  too,  but  not  half  so  much  as  she 
deserved. 

Clodia  kept  clear  of  Maltro  as  much  as  she 
would:  but  she  could  not  always  keep  clear  of 
him  altogether : she  never  encouraged  him,  and 
he  knew  it,  admiring  her  all  the  more,  but  not 
so  discouraged  as  to  leave  her  alone.  Faus- 
tulus  had  been  right  in  supposing  that  Maltro 
had  some  money — how  he  had  got  it  was  his 
own  secret,  and  F austulus  never  troubled  him- 
self about  other  people’s  secrets.  Maltro’s 
father  had  been  a cleverer  man  than  himself, 
and  much  more  frugal  and  self-denying:  by 
the  time  he  died  he  had  enough  to  buy  his  own 
freedom,  but  not  enough  to  buy  his  son’s  also : 
so  he  waited,  but  death  came  before  his  wait- 
ing was  over,  and  he  handed  his  secret  hoard 
over  to  his  son. 

Maltro  could  then  have  bought  his  freedom 
at  once,  but  he  too  resolved  to  wait.  If  he 
could  get  his  freedom  for  nothing  why  waste 
the  money?  He  was  already  pedagogue  to  lit- 
tle Tatius,  and,  if  he  succeeded  as  well  as  he 
intended,  he  thought  it  likely  Faustulus  would 
give  him  his  freedom.  Accia’s  death,  and  the 
consequent  removal  to  Olibanum,  had  not  much 


158 


FAUSTULA 


pleased  him:  he  liked  Rome  much  better,  and 
in  Rome  he  had  easier  means  of  increasing  his 
money,  for  he  saw  no  point  in  keeping  it  idle. 

It  was  tiresome,  too,  that  Tatius  was  so 
heavy:  he  worked  really  hard  with  him,  and 
taught  him  as  well  as  anybody  could  have  done : 
what  the  masters,  in  special  subjects,  who  came 
out  from  Rome,  taught  the  boy  would  have 
borne  very  little  fruit  but  for  Maltro,  and  the 
masters  knew  it  quite  well.  He  was  always  al- 
lowed to  be  in  the  room  while  such  lessons  were 
being  given,  and  Maltro  taught  them  all  over 
again,  when  the  masters  were  gone,  and  so 
taught  himself  a great  deal  that  would  not 
otherwise  have  come  in  his  way.  Still  Tatius 
was  slow,  dull  and  heavy:  not  stupid  exactly, 
but  thick-witted : and  Maltro  was  irritated  that 
his  pupil  did  him  so  little  credit.  When  Faus- 
tulus  returned  from  his  travels,  and  paid  that 
one  short  visit  to  Olibanum,  Maltro  soon 
learned  that  Tatius  was  no  more  a favourite 
with  his  f ather  now  than  he  had  been  as  a small 
child:  but  for  Clodia  he  would  probably  have 
made  up  his  mind  to  buy  his  freedom,  at  last. 
But  she  held  him  to  Olibanum;  and  besides  Ta- 
tius would  soon  be  leaving  Olibanum  himself, 
and  Maltro  thought  he  might  as  well  wait  a lit- 
tle longer  and  go  when  he  went. 

When  his  charge  of  Tatius  ceased,  and  it 


FAUSTULA 


159 


came  to  the  point  of  offering  to  buy  his  own 
freedom,  Faustulus,  if  he  had  any  decency, 
would  give  it  him  for  nothing,  or  for  very  lit- 
tle. He  would  then  be  able  to  buy  Clodia’s 
freedom  as  well,  and  he  had  an  idea  that  Faus- 
tulus would  not  object  to  her  going. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  removal  of 
Maltro,  Clodia  and  their  charges  to  the  Villa 
Acilia  took  place  very  soon  after  the  visit  of 
Faustulus : when  Melania  came  over  to  suggest 
it  she  had  heard  that  there  was  small-pox  not 
only  in  the  village,  or  castellum,  of  Olibanum, 
but  also  that  it  had  broken  out  among  Sabina’s 
house-slaves  also.  As  a matter  of  fact  only 
one  house-slave  had  taken  the  disease  and  that 
one  was  Didia.  But  Didia  was  one  of  Sa- 
bina’s own  dressers,  serving  under  an  older 
woman  who  had  come  with  their  mistress  from 
Rome  at  the  time  of  her  marriage : and  Sabina, 
though  the  girl  was  isolated  at  once,  had  been 
more  anxious  than  she  had  shown. 

However  it  had  all  turned  out  very  well. 
No  one  else  developed  the  dreadful  variolce, 
and  Didia  was  at  last  not  only  well,  but  pro- 
nounced free  from  infection.  On  the  actual 
day  when  they  informed  her  that  there  was  no 
more  risk  Sabina  received  a letter  from  her 
brother  telling  her  of  his  approaching  mar- 
riage with  Tullia.  During  the  day  following 


160 


FAUSTULA 


Sabina  pondered  this  announcement,  on  the 
next  she  made  up  her  mind  to  go  down  to  Rome 
and  talk  business  with  him,  of  which  there  had 
not  been  a word  in  his  short  letter.  Much  as 
she  disliked  going  there  she  had  occasional  busi- 
ness of  her  own  which  made  such  visits  neces- 
sary, and  she  had  some  now : so  she  would  kill 
two  birds  with  one  stone,  or  rather  several  birds. 
First  she  would  attend  to  her  own  aff  airs : then 
she  would  inspect  Tullia  and  make  up  her  mind 
how  this  marriage  would  affect  Faustula.  It 
might  be  convenient  that  she  should  now  re- 
turn to  her  father.  Finally,  Tatius  was  to  be 
considered,  and  definite  arrangements  must 
now  be  made  as  to  his  future.  Faustulus  had 
merely  sent  whimsical  messages  to  his  children 
without  any  hint  of  their  practical  concern  in 
his  news. 

As  it  happened  their  being  now  with  Melania 
would  make  Sabina’s  short  absence  all  the  more 
easy:  they  were  in  good  hands  and  Sabina  as- 
sured herself,  as  people  do  on  such  occasions, 
that  Melania  liked  having  them:  on  her  return 
they  should  come  back. 

Accordingly,  early  on  the  next  morning,  she 
set  off,  and  Didia,  whose  duties  were  not  to  be- 
gin again  till  her  return,  felt  that  she  had  a 
short  holiday  before  her,  all  the  more  as  Tana- 


FAUSTULA 


161 


guil,  the  elderly  attendant  we  have  mentioned, 
went  with  her  mistress. 

Didia  had  not  felt  it  to  have  been  a holiday 
at  all  while  she  was  ill:  for  weeks  she  had  been 
in  mortal  terror,  first  of  dying  outright,  and 
then  of  being  disfigured.  Maltro  would  not 
look  at  her  if  she  recovered  with  ugly  holes  in 
her  face. 

To  Venus  she  made  the  most  ample  promises 
in  case  of  unblemished  recovery  without  the 
least  doubt  as  to  the  connexion  of  the  goddess 
of  beauty  with  the  matter.  When  she  got  well, 
however,  Didia  compounded.  Her  promises, 
she  reminded  herself,  had  been  made  while  she 
was  light-headed,  and  had  been  strictly  condi- 
tional : they  could  hardly  be  binding  to  the  let- 
ter, since  after  all  there  were  a few  spots;  one 
on  the  side  of  her  nose  released  her  of  at  least 
sixty  per  cent,  of  her  engagements : even  those 
she  would  hold  over  till  it  appeared  what  Mal- 
tro now  thought  of  her. 

She  sent  him  a message  and  he  came  to  see 
her  without  the  least  reluctance.  He  was  tired 
of  being  at  Civitella  and  was  not  in  a good 
temper  with  Clodia.  At  first  he  had  rather 
liked  the  change  to  the  Villa  Acilia — change 
was  always  welcome — and  he  anticipated 
greater  freedom  out  of  reach  of  Sabina’s 


162 


FAUSTULA 


watchful  eye,  and  perhaps  some  adventures. 
But  there  had  been  no  adventures ; and,  though 
Melania  did  not  interfere  with  him,  the  staid 
and  well-ordered,  somewhat  strict,  Christian 
household  had  soon  bored  him.  At  home  his 
position  in  reference  to  Tatius  gave  him  a sort 
of  importance  that  he  missed  at  the  Villa 
Acilia:  and,  as  none  of  Melania’s  slaves  owed 
him  any  money,  he  could  not  treat  them  with 
the  slightly  supercilious  superiority  and  pat- 
ronage that  he  used  towards  Sabina’s.  For 
many  years  Maltro  had  been  a money-lender 
on  a prudent  scale,  and,  where  there  is  a large 
establishment  of  slaves,  borrowers  are  easy  to 
find : not  that  he  confined  his  operations  to  the 
dependents  of  his  master’s  sister.  What  he 
had  chiefly  liked  at  Civitella  was  the  relief 
from  the  too  constant  attendance  on  Tatius, 
which  at  home  he  often  found  very  oppressive: 
for  he  had  not  the  least  affection  for  his  charge, 
and  despised  while  he  flattered  him. 

To  slip  over  to  Olibanum  and  meet  Didia 
would  fill  up  an  evening  quite  agreeably. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


Maltro  would  have  obeyed  Didia’s  sum- 
mons in  any  case,  but  he  went  the  more 
readily  that  he  was  angry  with  Clodia. 

In  some  ways  he  found  it  easier  to  see  her 
alone  at  the  Villa  Acilia  than  it  was  at  home. 
It  would  have  been  quite  easy  if  Clodia  had 
been  as  willing  to  meet  him  as  he  was  anxious 
to  arrange  interviews  with  her.  For  Clodia 
had  more  time  to  herself,  also,  Faustula  being 
so  much  less  dependent  on  her  at  Civitella  than 
at  Olibanum.  But  Clodia  would  arrange  no 
meetings,  and  if  Maltro  ever  saw  her  alone  it 
was  by  accident. 

She  avoided  him  consciously  and  he  was  quite 
aware  of  it;  but  her  avoidance  only  increased 
his  eagerness:  and  he  had  brought  himself  to 
a decision  which  it  took  it  for  granted  must 
break  down  all  her  indifference. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  she  could  really 
dislike  him : he  thought  a great  deal  of  his  good 
looks,  and  of  his  education.  His  manners,  he 
considered,  were  quite  distinguished ; and,  when 
she  heard  the  proposal  he  was  going  to  make, 
she  must  be  carried  away  by  gratitude. 

As  it  happened  he  did  find  an  opportunity 

163 


164 


FAUSTULA 


of  speaking  to  her  alone,  on  the  evening  before 
Sabina’s  departure  for  Rome.  On  such  occa- 
sions Clodia  was  coolly  civil,  and  she  was  no 
more  than  that  now ; but,  during  her  six  weeks 
in  Melania’s  house  she  had  been  struck  by  the 
better  bearing  of  the  slaves  towards  each  other, 
and  her  manner  had  become  more  gentle. 
This  was  encouragement  enough  for  Maltro, 
and  he  unfolded  his  plans,  more  hurriedly  than 
he  would  have  liked,  for  he  was  afraid  of  her 
slipping  away,  but  quite  clearly,  because  he  had 
arranged  what  he  had  to  say. 

Without  attempting  any  love-making  he  told 
Clodia  that  he  had  resolved  to  go  to  Faustulus 
soon  and  ask  permission  to  buy  his  freedom. 

“Or  rather,”  he  explained  diplomatically,  “I 
shall  say  that  a certain  person  interested  in  me 
would  wish  to  buy  my  freedom.  That  would 
be  better  than  letting  Faustulus  know  I myself 
have  the  money.” 

Clodia  listened  with  patient  politeness  and 
put  in  a word  or  two  of  congratulation.  Then 
Maltro  went  on  to  express  his  opinion  that 
Faustulus,  considering  all  he  had  done  for  his 
son,  ought  to  feel  bound  to  offer  the  freedom 
for  nothing,  or  very  little.  Of  this  Clodia  did 
not  feel  so  sure;  Maltro’s  valuation  of  his  own 
services  would  probably  be  higher  than  that  of 
his  master;  but  this  doubt  she  kept  to  herself. 


FAUSTULA 


165 


“If  he  does  not,”  Maltro  went  on,  “he  will 
be  very  mean.  That  son  of  his  would  be  as 
ignorant  as  a frog  but  for  me.  But  in  any 
case  I have  the  money — more  money  than  you 
suppose.” 

He  paused  for  another  congratulation  and 
received  it  with  complacence.  It  is  delightful 
to  be  felicitated  on  one’s  wealth  by  those  who 
have  none  of  their  own.  Thus  oiled  his  elo- 
quence ran  on  more  glibly,  and  he  told  Clodia 
the  good  fortune  he  had  in  store  for  herself. 
Once  freed,  he  would  have  enough  to  buy  her 
freedom  also,  whereupon  they  would  be  mar- 
ried. 

Clodia  heard  him  out,  and  even  thanked  him 
for  so  generous  an  intention,  but,  in  a few  plain 
words,  assured  him  that  she  could  neither  leave 
her  beloved  little  mistress,  nor  marry  him  even 
if  she  were  free. 

Her  expressions  of  gratitude  were  not  insin- 
cere, but  her  firm  resolve  not  to  join  her  lot  with 
his  was  so  much  more  sincere  and  decided,  that 
Maltro  thought  nothing  of  them,  and  was  only 
angry.  He  became  very  angry  indeed,  and 
made  no  attempt  to  hide  it.  He  no  longer  pre- 
tended to  disguise  his  sense  of  his  own  superi- 
ority, and  told  her  in  brutal  phrases  how  lucky 
she  ought  to  think  herself  that  such  a man  as 
himself  should  be  willing  to  accept  her,  as  a 


166 


FAUSTULA 


freedman  too,  for  his  free  wife.  To  hurt  her 
more  he  spoke  of  her  history,  and  was  speaking 
of  it  when  she  left  him. 

His  spiteful  annoyance  was  by  no  means 
cooled  when  he  received  Didia’s  message,  and 
as  he  went  over  to  Olibanum  he  was  thinking 
much  more  of  Clodia’s  perverse  folly  than  of 
Didia.  He  still  wanted  Clodia,  and  was  still 
determined  to  get  her.  For  outraged  vanity 
flattery  is  a welcome  balsam,  and  Maltro  was 
sure  of  it  at  Didia’s  hands.  She  always  did 
flatter  him,  since  he  never  took  the  trouble  to 
flatter  her.  His  beauty,  his  genius,  his  su- 
perior hearing  and  tone,  she  never  failed  to  find 
something  to  say  of  them  all. 

Maltro  knew  she  was  a fool,  but  in  this  he 
did  not  think  her  foolish,  for  her  sentiments 
coincided  with  his  own. 

This  evening  she  was  more  open-handed  in 
dealing  out  her  praises  than  usual : that  horrid 
spot  on  the  side  of  her  nose  warned  her  to  be 
lavish.  It  was  dusk,  and  Maltro  could  not  see 
it,  but  Didia  never  forgot  it  for  an  instant.  It 
made  her  meek,  which  served  for  an  appear- 
ance of  good-temper.  Maltro  was  so  uncom- 
monly agreeable  that  she  felt  Venus  must  have 
a hand  in  it,  and  resolved  not  to  retrench  her 
engagements  further.  She  liked  the  idea  of  a 


FAUSTULA  167 

secret  understanding  between  the  divine  pat- 
roness of  beauty  and  herself. 

Maltro  found  the  interview  a pleasant  break 
after  the  monotonous  rigidity  of  the  Villa 
Acilia,  and  fancied  Didia  less  insipid  than  he 
thought.  Still  he  was  smarting  under  the  an- 
noyance Clodia  had  caused  him  and  he  was 
thinking  of  her  all  the  time.  Unfortunately, 
out  of  the  fulness  of  the  heart  the  mouth 
speaks,  and  presently  her  name  dropped  from 
him. 

Didia  was  instantly,  though  inwardly,  furi- 
ous. 

“You  see  her  all  the  time  over  there,”  she 
said  as  coolly  as  she  could. 

“No.  Oh,  no.  But  we  are  not  watched 
over  there  as  we  are  here.” 

This  was  enough  for  Didia.  When  people 
are  not  watched  they  please  themselves. 

“Could  you  give  her  a small  parcel?”  she 
asked  indifferently. 

“How  small?”  inquired  Maltro  who  had  no 
idea  of  burdening  himself. 

“Oh,  quite  small  and  light.  Some  clean 
linen  she  wants.  If  you  do  not  wish  to  take 
it,  it  can  be  sent  on  to-morrow.” 

Maltro  was  not  sure  that  the  parcel  would 
be  so  very  small:  light  it  probably  would  be. 


168 


FAUSTULA 


He  hesitated  : in  daylight  he  would  not  have 
been  seen  carrying  a bundle  for  anything:  but 
it  was  night  now  and  he  thought  the  parcel 
might  give  him  a convenient  pretext  for  seeing 
Clodia  again  soon.  He  still  wanted  to  see  her 
— he  could  not  keep  away  from  her. 

“Very  well,”  he  said  carelessly.  “If  it  is  not 
bulky  I will  take  it.” 

When  Clodia  received  the  parcel  she  was 
slightly  surprised,  for  she  expected  no  clean 
linen;  but  she  did  not  want  to  stop  and  talk 
with  Maltro  and  hurried  away  with  it  to  the 
little  room  she  still  occupied  next  to  that  which 
had  been  Faustula’s  while  they  were  all  segre- 
gated. It  contained  one  article  of  linen  and 
also  a silk  head-scarf  which  Sabina  had  given 
her  at  the  last  Lupercalia.  For  some  time  she 
had  lost  this,  and  her  idea  was  that  Didia  had 
appropriated  it  and  was  now  making  a sort 
of  covert  restitution:  so  she  determined  to  say 
nothing  about  it  to  anybody. 

Clodia  was  quite  right  in  guessing  that  Didia 
had  stolen  the  scarf;  but  she  could  not  guess 
that  during  the  long,  dull  and  miserable  hours 
of  her  illness  the  wretched  girl  had  constantly 
had  it  in  bed  with  her  and  often  decked  her 
infected  head  with  it.  That  night  Clodia  wore 
the  scarf  on  her  head,  as  it  was  a special  occa- 
sion, when  she  went  to  the  door  of  the  oratory 


FAUSTULA 


169 


to  watch  the  ceremony  of  the  emancipation  of 
Melania’s  four  slaves.  Then  with  a sudden 
fear  of  being  thought  vain  she  had  gone  back 
to  her  room,  stuff  ed  the  scarf  into  her  bed,  and 
run  down  again  to  join  the  others  in  their 
merry-making. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  small-pox  came  over 
from  Olibanum  to  the  Villa  Acilia. 

As  sooi\as  Melania  saw  Clodia  she  felt  sure 
that  the  poor  girl  was  sickening  for  the  disease, 
and  she  had  not  long  to  wait  before  finding  she 
had  been  right.  As  tenderly  as  though  the 
slave  had  been  her  own  younger  sister  did  Me- 
lania nurse*  her  and  always  with  her  singular 
sweet  cheerfulness.  You  might  have  thought 
that  in  all  the  world  there  was' no  one  for  Me- 
lania to  think  of  besides  her  patient,  and  that 
small-pox  was  a sort  of  intimate  joke  between 
them. 

“You  must  do  me  credit  and  get  well,”  she 
would  say  with  her  gentle  laugh.  “You  are 
my  first  case.  And  Placida  must  be  con- 
founded by  my  success.  She  is  too  vain  of 
her  nursing.” 

Clodia  thought  of  Faustula  and  intended  to 
get  well  if  she  could. 

“Ah,  dear  little  Faustula,”  Melania  would 
say.  “Yes.  That’s  a better  reason  still. 
How  can  she  get  on  without  you?” 


170 


FAUSTULA 


Melania  was  a noble  Roman  lady,  and 
Clodia  a poor  shamed  slave,  but  all  that  was 
forgotten  in  the  intimate  charity  of  that  sick- 
room. Melania  had  a heart  big  enough  for  all 
the  slaves  in  the  world : the  more  she  loved  her 
own,  the  sons  whom  God  had  given  her,  the 
more  room  there  was  in  her  love  f or  those  who 
had  come  to  love  them.  In  that  she  was  really 
like  our  Lord,  who  says:  “Other  sheep  I have 
who  are  not  of  this  fold,  and  must  fain  bring 
them  in  also.” 

He  did  not  forget  to  make  that  sick-room 
happy.  With  all  the  trouble  that  grew  with 
Melania’s  quiet,  grave  certainty  that  the  disease 
had  marked  her  also  down,  she  was  happy.  It 
would  all  be  as  He  fashioned  it. 

To  those  who,  in  spite  of  mere  verbal  pro- 
fession of  faith,  have  no  real  belief  in  any  life 
of  ours  but  this,  such  happiness  as  hers  is  in- 
comprehensible, and  such  an  end  as  hers  mere 
tragedy.  Sorry  tag  as  their  own  life  mostly 
is,  their  clutch  of  it  is  desperate ; when  it  tears 
in  their  hands  all  is  lost.  So  they  will  not 
believe  that  there  are  human  beings,  with  hearts 
as  warm  to  human  tenderness  as  their  own,  to 
whom  that  sharp  twist  in  life’s  road  which 
we  call  death  is  no  more  than  that. 

Nobody  could  have  loved  her  sons  better 
than  Melania,  or  more  sweetly  prized  their  love 


FAUSTULA 


171 


for  her.  She  knew  how  material  to  them  she 
had  been,  but  she  would  not  call  herself  in- 
dispensable. That  the  loss  of  her  visible  pres- 
ence must  be  a deep  sorrow  to  them  she  knew 
also;  but  she  could  not  think  of  it  as  an  ab- 
sence: being  with  God  could  not  remove  her 
from  them,  since  He  is  everywhere.  Of  her 
own  usefulness  to  them  she  thought  frankly 
but  humbly,  knowing  that  mothers  cannot  walk 
beside  their  sons  through  life,  nor  always  judge 
better  of  men’s  duties  and  difficulties  than 
themselves.  In  a very  short  time  they  would 
go  out  into  the  world  and  would  never  come 
back  home,  to  live  under  her  care  and  by  her 
rule.  With  God  she  could  be  nearer  to  them 
and  more  useful. 

Thus  feeling  it  did  not  seem  to  her  that  she 
was  about  to  lose  them  either:  but  rather  that 
in  her  nearness  to  them  there  was  coming  a 
greater  sacredness,  a tie  more  close  because  in- 
visible, intangible  and  no  longer  subject  to 
earthly  hindrances  of  time  and  place. 

The  grief  they  must  suff  er  hurt  her,  and  she 
wished  she  might  have  borne  all  the  hurt  in  her- 
self: but  even  God  lets  us  bear  some  of  our 
own  burdens,  and  she  was  too  deeply  reverent 
to  think  of  outstripping  tenderness  like  His: 
too  simply  wise  not  to  know  how  far  upward 
some  sorrows  may  lift  some  of  us:  too  full  of 


172 


FAUSTULA 


trust  in  her  boys’  goodness  not  to  feel  a proud 
confidence  that  their  sorrow  would  be  like  a 
sacrament  of  thorns  binding  them  more  closely 
to  the  King. 

Nor  were  her  last  days  on  earth  vexed  by 
any  fear  lest  they  should  reproach  her  for 
having  sacrificed  herself  and  them  to  a far- 
fetched sense  of  duty  to  this  slave  who  did  not 
even  belong  to  her.  She  knew  them  better: 
and  she  knew  God  too  well  to  reproach  her- 
self. She  had  done  what  seemed  to  her  right : 
the  mere  event  could  make  no  diff erence.  She 
could  not  be  quite  certain  she  had  been  right, 
but  God  does  not  ask  us  to  know  all  things  like 
Himself : that  we  should  be  thus  was  the  temp- 
ter’s lying  promise. 

If  there  be  memories  of  earth  so  sacred  and 
so  sweet  that  they  live  on  in  heaven,  and  we, 
who  believe  in  the  Communion  of  Saints  which 
we  profess,  know  that  there  are,  Melania  never 
forgot  the  happiness  with  which  Our  Lord 
made  golden  those  days  in  the  sick-room  which 
were  her  last,  and  Clodia’s  last,  here  below. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


That  Clodia  was  dying,  Melania  under- 
stood about  the  same  time  she  knew  her- 
self to  have  caught  the  infection. 

Almost  immediately  she  saw  that  the  girl 
was  aware  of  her  condition,  and,  with  unspeak- 
able relief  and  thankfulness,  that  she  was  not 
terrified.  It  lifted  a great  load  from  her  own 
mind. 

Presently  Clodia  spoke  out  concerning  a 
matter  that  had  lain  near  her  heart  since  before 
she  fell  ill. 

“When  I die,”  she  said  simply,  “I  shall  be- 
long to  no  one  any  more.  May  I be  a Chris- 
tian? It  can  make  no  difference  to  anyone.” 
Melania’s  heart  was  full  of  tears,  but  she 
gave  a little  laugh  as  she  answered: 

“I  was  too  great  a coward  to  speak  of  it 
before.  I knew  you  wanted  to  be  a Christian. 
I have  seen  it  for  many  days.  But  I had  not 
the  pluck  to  speak  out  as  long  as  there  seemed 
a likelihood  of  getting  well.” 

She  was  sitting  by  the  girl’s  side,  and  almost 
at  once  began  telling  her  of  the  Christian 
scheme  of  things,  of  God  and  man,  and  the 
Man  who  is  God;  of  His  birth  and  life  and 

173 


174 


FAUSTULA 


death;  of  His  lordship  of  life  and  death;  of 
His  entrance  into  human  life  by  the  low  gate 
of  birth,  His  passing  out  of  it  by  the  abject 
gate  of  a felon’s  death,  “quia  ipse  voluit”  not 
because  it  was  His  master,  but  because  He 
chose  to  obey  His  servant,  as  He  had  obeyed 
Joseph  in  the  Holy  House  where,  of  its  three 
inmates.  He  was  least,  who  was  God  and  Mas- 
ter. Then  of  the  lordly  triumph  of  Easter, 
when  He  flung  aside  the  garment  of  death 
once  it  had  served  its  turn,  and  bade  His  hu- 
man life  come  back  to  His  own  body,  as  He 
had  called  it  back  to  the  bodies  of  other  three 
who  had  been  dead. 

But  most  tenderly  of  all  did  she  dwell  on 
the  simplicity  and  hiddenness  of  most  of  the 
three  and  thirty  years  between  those  two  meek 
gates  of  God’s  life  on  earth,  Bethlehem  and 
Calvary. 

“He  spent  thirty  of  them  proving  he  was 
Man,”  she  said,  “only  sparing  the  last  three  to 
prove  that  He  was  God.  His  Godhead  proves 
itself : but  to  our  shy  hearts  it  would  seem  so 
hard  to  grasp  that  God  could  be  Man.  So  He 
proved  it  slowly,  with  tender  daily  deliberation, 
point  by  point,  baby  and  child,  boy  and  lad  and 
man,  with  one  set  purpose  moving  on  unhur- 
ried from  windy  cradle  to  hard  cross.” 

Now  and  then  Melania  framed  into  her 


FAUSTULA 


175 


words  a picture:  that  of  the  world’s  first  am- 
bassadors to  God’s  meagre  court  on  earth,  the 
Shepherds  whose  calling  was  the  only  one  He 
acknowledged  as  His  own : that  of  Cana  where 
He  first  displayed  the  intimate  secret  pity 
which  would  not  let  a host  be  ashamed  for  bid- 
bing  more  guests  than  he  could  meetly  enter- 
tain : that  sunlit  one  wherein  He  made  his  only 
writing,  choosing  for  His  book  the  earth  itself, 
when  He  stooped  and  stooped  again  to  write 
a woman’s  pardon:  “Neither  do  I condemn 
thee.”  Telling  of  this  Melania  had  slipped 
from  her  low  seat,  and  knelt  by  Clodia’s 
bed  upon  the  floor,  holding  the  girl  close  to 
her. 

They  were  both  too  deeply  intent  to  think 
of  anything  but  what  Melania  was  telling. 
When  her  voice  broke  and  she  could  tell  no 
more,  Clodia  cried  aloud  almost  pushing  her 
from  her. 

“Ah!  my  lady!  Ah!  my  dear  lady!  What 
have  you  done?” 

“It  is  no  matter.  We  are  going  together. 
He  has  brought  us  close  to  each  other  for  the 
rest  of  the  little  way  that  leads  to  His  sweet 
Feet!”  Even  then  her  wonderful  grave 
cheerfulness  shone  out,  and  she  laughed  her 
strange,  tender,  childlike  little  laugh  as  she 
said ; "He  will  not  mind  our  poor  spots.  He  is 


176 


FAUSTULA 


used  to  them.  Healing  them  has  always  been 
his  business.  So  we  needn’t  mind  each  other. 
We  must  be  each  other’s  mirror  and  get  used 
to  being  queer.  If  I look  queer  soon  you 
must  put  up  with  it.” 

“Do  I look  queer?”  asked  Clodia,  half  cry- 
ing and  half  laughing. 

“Yes,  rather.”  And  Melania  gave  over 
anything  like  crying  and  laughed  undis- 
guisedly. 

“Poor  Clodia!  It  was  much  more  than 
queer  she  looked,  her  beauty  was  all  gone : but 
to  Melania  it  seemed  only  to  have  been  driven 
inward.  She  had  never  had  any  beauty  her- 
self, as  she  thought;  her  husband’s  admiration 
she  had  laughingly  accepted  as  a pretty  blind- 
ness of  love. 

All  this  time  the  reader  may  wonder  had 
they  no  sort  of  doctor?  Their  doctor  was  the 
young  priest  Domnio  who  had  as  much  medical 
knowledge  as  anyone  had  then.  Twice  every 
day  he  came,  but  Melania  never  let  him  come 
in.  The  wing  in  which  they  were  was  lower 
than  the  main  body  of  the  house,  and  older 
than  it,  being  in  fact  the  original  house  on  to 
which  the  Acilius  Glabrio  of  Nero’s  time  had 
built  his  villa:  the  original  entrance  was  still 
there,  opening  to  a separate  garden  surrounded 
by  a high  wall.  For  some  years  before  the 


FAUSTULA 


177 


conversion  of  Constantine  this  wing  had  been 
used  as  a sort  of  convent,  in  which  had  lived 
the  widow  of  an  Acilius  Glabrio  (grandmother 
of  Melania’s  husband)  with  some  other  holy 
women  who  devoted  themselves  to  a life  of 
prayer  and  penance.  Through  the  garden 
everything  Melania  and  her  patient  needed  was 
brought  and  left  at  the  door,  whence  she  herself 
took  it  in.  To  the  door  Domnio  was  allowed 
to  come,  and  there  Melania  saw  him,  mak- 
ing her  report,  and  taking  his  directions,  and 
thither  he  brought  such  medicines  as  were  nec- 
essary: she  never  allowed  him  to  enter,  or  to 
come  nearer  than  the  lower  step.  When  he 
brought  her  Holy  Communion  she  knelt  out- 
side on  the  upper  step. 

On  the  day  following  that  on  which  Clodia 
had  expressed  her  desire  to  become  a Chris- 
tian Melania  told  Domnio  of  this  happy  news, 
and  he  said: 

“Now  you  must  let  me  come  in  to  baptize 
her.” 

“No.  I knew  you  would  ask  that  and  I 
baptized  her  myself.  She  was  very  ill  last 
night;  her  heart  is  now  veiy  weak,  and  I saw 
no  sense  in  waiting.  This  morning  she  is  bet- 
ter but  she  gets  weaker  every  day.” 

It  was  Melania’s  day  for  Holy  Communion 
and  she  was  veiled,  the  veil  hanging  down  al- 


178 


FAUSTULA 


most  to  her  mouth:  so  that  Domnio  could  not 
see  anything  of  her  face. 

“Should  she  not  receive  Extreme  Unction?” 
he  asked. 

Melania  had  thought  of  this  and  had  her 
answer  ready. 

“Yes.  If  you  will  come  back  in  an  hour  she 
shall  be  ready.” 

“And  I may  come  in?” 

“There  is  no  necessity.  She  shall  be  here 
just  inside  the  door;  and,  please,  only  anoint 
her  on  the  hand,  and  that  with  a stylus.” 

Domnio  did  not  see  why  Melania  should  take 
all  the  risks  herself,  and  hesitated  before  prom- 
ising. 

Melania  laughed  one  of  her  little  quiet  laughs 
and  said: 

“Remember  you  are  to  do  what  I tell  you. 
The  Pope  said  so  when  he  sent  you  to  us. 
And,  besides,  her  face  is  very  dreadful:  you 
know  that  in  cases  of  necessity  one  anointing 
is  enough.  I want  you  to  be  able  to  see  the 
boys  still.” 

“Then  I will  give  her  Holy  Viaticum  at  the 
same  time.” 

To  this,  being  a necessity  of  charity,  Melania 
agreed:  then,  kneeling  for  a few  moments  in 
silence,  she  confessed  herself  and  received  her 
own  Communion. 


FAUSTULA 


179 


When  Domnio  came  back  in  an  hour  he 
found  Clodia  lying  on  a bed  upon  the  floor 
just  inside  the  door;  Melania  had  brought  it 
there  herself  and  carried  the  girl,  well  wrapped 
up  in  clean  white  coverings,  her  head  and  face 
veiled,  only  one  hand  visible.  As  Melania  was 
still  veiled  herself,  Clodia  did  not  suspect  that 
there  was  anything  in  her  own  appearance 
which  the  womanly,  sisterly  tenderness  of  her 
friend  wished  to  hide. 

Domnio  obeyed  Melania  in  anointing  only 
the  one  hand,  the  palm  of  which  had  no  spots 
upon  it;  but  he  would  use  no  stylus,  applying 
the  holy  oil  with  his  thumb  as  in  ordinary  cases. 

When  the  time  came  Melania  kneeling  by 
her  drew  aside  enough  of  Clodia’s  veil  to  leave 
the  mouth  just  accessible,  keeping  even  the  chin 
still  covered,  and  Domnio  laid  the  Host  upon 
the  girl’s  tongue. 

For  some  time  the  priest  knelt  by  the  door 
reading  the  prayers.  When  he  was  gone 
Clodia  took  her  last  look  out  into  the  shining 
world:  it  was  a glorious  day  of  summer,  all 
blue  and  gold;  up  there  in  the  mountains  the 
air  was  fresh  but  warm  and  caressing. 

At  last  Melania  lifted  her  in  her  arms  again 
and  carried  her  back  to  her  bed.  It  was  a 
happy  day,  and  Melania  thought  of  it  as  a sort 
of  holiday,  like  the  days  on  which  her  boys  had 


180 


FAUSTULA 


made  their  first  communion.  That  her  own 
illness  gathered  strength  she  felt  from  hour  to 
hour;  but  she  was  sure  God  would  let  her  live 
so  long  as  Clodia  needed  aer0 

So  several  days  went  by,  each  seeming  to 
both  women  happier  than  the  last.  The 
Golden  Gates  were  opening,  and  the  radiance 
of  the  King’s  City  was  shining  down. 

Once  Melania,  sitting  close  to  Clodia  and 
holding  the  girl’s  hand  in  hers,  asked  her  gently 
if  she  had  anyone  to  forgive. 

“No  one  but  myself — I know  what  I have 
done  to  you.” 

Then  Melania  told  her  without  the  least  af- 
fectation with  her  plain  simplicity,  how  she 
looked  at  all  that.  That  she  was  not  being 
snatched  from  her  boys,  nor  they  from  her,  as 
we  have  tried  to  explain  it,  though  in  much 
nobler,  tenderer  words. 

“When  my  beloved  husband  went  to  God,” 
she  said,  “I  knew  he  had  not  gone  away:  for 
God  is  closer  to  us  than  our  own  flesh  is  close 
to  ourselves.  In  this  life  we  could  not  always 
be  together:  then  I knew  we  should  henceforth 
be  together  always.  When  I am  dead  shall  I 
not  be  much  nearer  to  Christopher  and  Fabian 
than  I am  now,  though  they  are  only  in  another 
part  of  this  house?  Presently,  if  I had  lived, 


FAUSTULA 


181 


the  business  of  this  life  would  have  carried  them 
far  from  me.  That  can  never  be  now.  .The 
first  person  you  must  forgive  is  yourself — 
and  it  would  be  hard  for  me  to  think  you 
hard.” 

“There  is  no  one  else,”  Clodia  answered 
quietly. 

They  were  both  silent  for  a little  while,  then 
Melania  said : 

“Where  we  are  going  you  must  plead  for 
Faustula  that  she,  too,  may  find  what  you  have 
found.” 

“And  for  her  father.” 

“ ‘Abyssus  abyssum  invocat,’  ” thought  Me- 
lania. “And  the  fathomless  deeps  of  the 
Heart  of  God  may  stir  the  shallows  of  that 
shallow  heart,  too.” 

She  told  Clodia  of  the  pool  that  God’s  angel 
moved,  and  of  the  man  sick  for  eight-and-thirty 
years  of  his  infirmity,  never  able  to  scramble 
down  in  time.  For  no  man  would  help  him; 
till  the  Man  came  by  whom  he  had  never 
thought  of,  but  Who  had  been  thinking  of  him 
since  before  the  waste  of  waters  ran  back  from 
the  lovely  kind. 

“What  did  He  write?”  Clodia  whis- 
pered : her  mind  running  back  to  that  other  pic- 
ture. 


182 


FAUSTULA 


Melania  never  answered  for  Him,  but  let 
Him  tell  her  for  Himself.  She  saw  that 
Clodia  and  He  were  face  to  face. 

That  night  Fabian  came  to  his  brother’s  bed 
and  touched  him. 

“Christopher!”  he  whispered. 

“Yes,  dear,  I am  awake?” 

“I  have  seen  something  ...  if  it  was  a 
dream  I cannot  remember  waking  after  it.  In 
the  old  garden  within  the  wall,  I saw  a shining 
place,  and  by  it  stood  a Man  resting  himself 
after  working.  Come  and  see.” 

They  went  together.  It  was  a night  of 
many  stars,  but  moonless : there  was  no  sound 
hut  the  breathing  of  the  resting  world,  as  of 
one  who  sleeps  pleasantly.  The  mountains 
stood  around  bulked  into  one  large  blackness. 

In  the  old  garden  there  were  many  flowers, 
with  shut  eyes,  sleeping  like  the  night.  A very 
pale  light,  like  a scarf  of  shining  mist,  hung 
over  a little  plot  of  soft  earth  quite  near  the 
two  steps  leading  up  to  the  door  of  the  old 
wing  which  stood  open.  The  mild  radiance 
shone  upwards  from  the  ground  as  if  it  were  a 
reflection : and  when  they  came  near  they  found 
there  was  there  a light  sprinkling  of  snow, 
scarce  more  than  a white  frost  of  winter.  All 
the  rest  of  the  garden  still  glowed  with  the 
sunlight  of  the  day  before. 


FAUSTULA 


183 


“It  was  here  I thought  I saw  Him,”  Fabian 
whispered;  but  there  was  no  one  there  now. 

When  the  rooms  which  Melania  and  Clodia 
had  used  were  entered,  all  was  found  ex- 
quisitely clean,  but  they  were  empty.  A fra- 
grance different  from  that  of  any  flower  of 
earth  clung  to  them,  like  a smile  to  the  faces  of 
the  blessed  dead;  but  no  dead  were  found  there. 
And  no  other  case  appeared  at  Civitella  of  the 
sickness  that  had  healed  Clodia  and  set  her 
free. 


END  OF  FIRST  PART 


SECOND  PART 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN  the  year  350  occurred  the  death  of  the 
Emperor  Constans,  who  was  killed  in 
Spain  by  Magnentius;  an  event  which  did  not 
seem  to  affect  the  lot  of  Faustula,  but  did  ulti- 
mately have  its  bearing  on  her  history,  in  so 
far  as  it  paved  the  way  for  the  accession  of 
Julian  as  sole  Emperor  ten  years  later. 

What  aff  ected  her  obviously  and  at  once  was 
that  Sabina  died  in  the  spring  of  that  same  year, 
350,  rather  more  than  six  months  before  Faus- 
tula became  ten  years  old. 

Faustula  was  still  living  with  her  aunt  at 
Olibanum,  though  Tatius  was  now  in  the  army, 
and  only  came  thither  occasionally. 

Sabina  had  not  been  favourably  impressed  by 
Tullia  when  she  went  to  inspect  her  on  the  eve 
of  her  marriage,  and  that  young  woman  made 
it  quite  clear  that  she  had  no  inclination  for  the 
part  of  a stepmother.  She  had  understood 
from  Faustulus  that  there  was  no  idea  of  any 
of  his  children  coming  to  live  with  them:  and 

185 


186  FAUSTULA 

she  was  determined  not  to  have  Faustula  on  her 
hands. 

Sabina  showed  her  disapproval  and  went 
away:  and,  to  do  her  justice,  had  no  intention 
of  forcing  the  child  on  a stepmother  so  very 
little  likely  to  be  kind  to  her.  But  she  was  dis- 
pleased and  disappointed:  for  now  that  Tatius 
was  going  away  she  did  not  particularly  want 
his  sister,  and  had  settled  in  her  own  mind  that 
her  brother’s  marriage  would  provide  the  suit- 
able occasion  f or  F austula’s  return  to  him.  At 
first  the  idea  had  merely  occurred  to  her  as 
feasible  and  convenient ; but  it  soon  assumed  the 
dignity  of  a plan ; and,  like  all  people  who  have 
lived  long  apart  in  a position  of  authority,  her 
plans  once  conceived  took  firm  root,  and  what 
upset  them  she  resented. 

Still  she  was  not  unkind  or  harsh  to  the  little 
girl : she  merely  resented  her  presence,  as  it  was 
due  to  a neglect  of  their  duty  by  other  people. 
But  Faustula  was  too  keenly  intuitive  not  to 
f eel  that  she  was  a half -unwelcome  guest.  The 
woman  and  the  child  never  bored  each  other: 
because  the  woman  had  no  heart  to  love  any- 
one with,  and  because  the  child  had  the  sort  of 
passionate  heart  that  will  only  give  love  for 
love.  Food  and  clothing  and  home-shelter 
never  have  won  love  yet. 

Sabina,  perhaps,  imagined  that  she  did  love 


FAUSTULA  187 

Tatius ; but  she  only  really  cared  for  him  as  her 
heir. 

Faustula’s  life  became  more  and  more  lonely 
as  she  grew  more  and  more  capable  of  feeling 
what  her  loneliness  was.  Clodia  had  tenderly 
loved  her,  with  an  unselfishness  that  the  child 
understood  better  as  time  went  on;  and  Clodia 
was  dead.  Melania  was  dead,  too,  and  the 
motherly  aff ection  that  might  have  grown  into 
Faustula’s  life  but  for  that  death  was  missing. 

Acilia,  when  Melania’s  sons  entered  the 
army,  lived  chiefly  in  Rome,  for  in  Rome  the 
lads  were  at  first,  and  she  wished  to  keep  a 
home  open  for  them.  Now  and  then  Chris- 
topher or  Fabian,  or  both,  would  come  out  to 
Olibanum;  but  they  would  have  come  oftener 
had  Sabina’s  welcome  been  more  cordial.  Civil 
she  always  was,  but  not  much  more.  The  sight 
of  them  reminded  her  of  the  great  misfortune 
she  had  indirectly  brought  upon  them  by  letting 
Tatius  and  his  sister  go  to  Civitella.  It  made 
her  feel  that  the  obligation  she  was  under  would 
never  pass. 

When  Tatius  came,  Sabina  made  great  prep- 
arations; but  his  visits  were  seldom  very  satis- 
factory. He  almost  always  wanted  money, 
and  she  disliked  parting  with  it.  She  was  sav- 
ing all  the  money  she  had  for  him,  but  she  did 
not  enjoy  giving  it  to  him  during  her  life.  She 


188 


FAUSTULA 


wanted  him  to  wait  and  have  it  all  in  one  great 
sum  when  she  was  dead. 

What  she  did  give  was  taken  from  the 
sum  she  held  apart  for  Faustula’s  dowry. 
That  money  she  kept  by  her,  and  to  hand  por- 
tions of  it  to  Tatius  tried  her  less  than  abridg- 
ing the  yearly  amounts  she  had  calculated  on 
adding  to  her  capital — his  capital. 

When  she  was  specially  annoyed  by  any  ap- 
plication of  his  she  would  tell  him  this: 

“It  ought  to  make  you  ashamed,”  she  would 
say  sourly:  “You  are  robbing  your  sister.” 

But  so  long  as  Tatius  got  what  he  wanted  he 
did  not  much  trouble  himself  about  Faustula’s 
interest  in  the  matter. 

After  he  had  gone  back  to  Rome,  Sabina 
would  be  less  amiable  than  usual  to  his  sister: 
the  more  Faustula’s  dowry  suffered  from  his 
ravages  the  more  plainly  could  Sabina  perceive 
the  poor  girl’s  faults:  and  Faustula  was  any- 
thing but  faultless. 

When,  at  last,  Sabina  died,  it  was  after  one 
of  these  visits  of  her  nephew’s.  She  had  been 
ill  with  a malarial  cold,  and  her  heart  had  suf- 
fered severely.  The  mere  fact  of  being  ill  had 
upset  her,  as  she  had  always  enjoyed  excellent 
health,  and  took  it  for  granted  she  always 
would.  Those  around  her  had  illnesses  of  one 
kind  or  another,  but  they  were  her  inferiors,  and 


FAUSTULA 


189 


her  own  fine  health  she  supposed  to  be  a part 
of  her  general  superiority.  Melania’s  death 
she  had  always  inwardly  attributed  to  an  absurd 
neglect  of  precautions  and  a somewhat  weak 
character. 

Sabina’s  most  obvious  resource  when  sickness 
took  the  liberty  of  attacking  herself  was  to  ig- 
nore the  fact,  and  to  a great  extent  she  did 
so. 

Tatius  particularly  annoyed  her  by  hinting, 
when  she  scolded  and  reproached  him,  that  she 
was  not  up  to  the  mark. 

“Had  I known,”  he  observed  with  what  he 
took  for  singular  tact,  “that  you  were  ill  I 
should  have  waited.  I could  easily  have  put 
off  my  visit  till  next  month.” 

“Do  you  suppose  ten  sestertia  would  have 
been  less  next  month?”  cried  Sabina  fiercely. 
“111!  What  has  my  being  ill  to  do  with  it?  I 
am  ill  of  sestertia.  This  makes  two  hundred 
you  have  wanted  in  a year.  If  I give  you  this 
there  will  be  hardly  anything  left  for  Faus- 
tula.” 

This  did  not  worry  Tatius:  but,  to  do  him 
justice,  he  thought  it  nonsense.  His  aunt  was 
a very  rich  woman,  and,  so  far  as  he  could  re- 
member, he  had  altogether  only  reduced  Faus- 
tula’s  dowry  by  three  hundred — well  say  four 
hundred,  sestertia.  Sabina  could  make  it  up  if 


190 


FAUSTULA 


she  chose.  If  she  would  not,  that  was  her  con- 
cern, and  he  resented  having  it  put  on  him. 

When  he  went  back  to  Rome,  with  his  money, 
of  course,  Sabina  was  almost  savage  to  Faus- 
tula.  She  was  nearly  ten  years  old  now,  and 
her  quick  intelligence  had  kept  pace  with  her 
growth.  She  so  thoroughly  understood  why 
her  aunt  was  disagreeable  that  her  own  anger 
was  against  her  brother  rather  than  against 
Sabina.  Faustula’s  temper  was  not  submis- 
sive, but  she  kept  it  in,  and  really  did  her  best 
to  soothe  the  old  woman’s  irritated  feelings : for 
Sabina,  not  yet  fifty,  was  aging  rapidly. 

One  night,  not  many  days  after  Tatius  had 
gone  away  they  were  together  and  alone,  and 
Sabina  was  in  a softer  mood  than  Faustula  had 
seen  her  for  years. 

“Your  brother,”  she  exclaimed  suddenly, 
“will  break  my  heart.  Money,  money,  money, 
he  is  always  wanting  money.” 

Faustula  did  not  know  what  to  say:  she 
hated  the  subject;  and  she  did  not  want  to  say, 
what  she  felt,  that  Tatius  was  greedy  and 
selfish. 

“You  have  always  been  generous  to  him,” 
she  said  gently. 

“To  him!  I meant  to  be  generous  to  you 
also.  But  he  has  drained  away  nearly  all  there 
was  for  you.” 


FAUSTULA 


191 


Sabina  laid  it  all  on  Tatius:  she  would  not 
accuse  herself  at  all. 

Faustula  could  not  understand.  Precocious 
as  she  was,  her  precocity  did  not  tend  that  way. 
The  subject  of  money  she  had  always  heard 
discussed  with  aversion,  for  it  seemed  always 
to  make  people  ill-tempered.  She  knew  other- 
wise nothing  about  it. 

“Please,”  she  begged,  blushing  quickly,  “do 
not  trouble  about  me.” 

“That  is  absurd,”  Sabina  cried  impatiently. 
“There  was  your  dowry.  If  you  have  none, 
who  will  marry  you  ? A daughter  of  the  F aus- 
tuli  needs  no  huge  sum : mine  was  small  enough. 
But  I was  beautiful  and  a daughter  of  the 
Faustuli.  So  are  you.  Still  it  is  not  decent 
to  go  empty-handed  altogether  to  your  hus- 
band  ” 

She  spoke  quite  vehemently,  and  Faustula 
saw  her  press  her  hand  to  her  heart  with  a 
sudden  quick  gasp  as  of  sharp  pain. 

“Please — please,  do  not  trouble  about  my 
dowry,”  she  entreated  earnestly,  coming  quite 
close  to  her  aunt.  “You  should  only  think  of 
getting  well ” 

“It  must  be  thought  of  . . . you  talk  fool- 
ishly. You  are  a child.  . . . Go  and  tell  Tan- 
aguil  to  come.  But  it  must  be  thought  of. 
Tell  Tatius — mind,  I order  you.  Tell  him  I 


192 


FAUSTULA 


said  so.  He  knows  I have  given  him  all  your 
money;  he  must  make  it  up.  . . .” 

Even  then,  even  there  F austula  swore  to  her- 
self, that,  whatever  might  happen,  in  all  the 
years  to  come,  she  would  never  tell  Tatius.  All 
the  same  it  was  not  of  him,  or  of  herself,  she 
was  thinking  as  she  hurried  to  find  Tanaguil. 

When  Tanaguil  and  the  child  returned  to- 
gether Sabina  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


For  a few  months  now  Faustula  had  to  live 
in  her  father’s  house,  because  there  was 
nowhere  else:  and  she  understood  the  reason 
plainly.  During  nearly  f our  years,  since  F aus- 
tulus  returned  from  his  travels,  she  had  scarcely 
seen  him : once  only  had  he  come  to  Olibanum, 
bringing  his  wife  with  him  and  staying  but  one 
night. 

Sabina  had  been  coldly  civil  to  Tullia,  and 
Tullia  had  been  cold  without  much  troubling  to 
be  civil  to  Sabina.  Of  Faustula  she  had  taken 
the  least  possible  notice,  and  Faustulus  had 
seemed  to  be  afraid  of  noticing  his  daughter 
much. 

Tullia  was  much  handsomer  than  Accia  had 
been,  and  much  less  amiable:  it  seemed  odd 
that  Faustulus,  whose  own  temper  had  always 
been  the  best  part  of  him,  should  have  married 
two  ill-tempered  wives.  Accia,  however,  had 
only  been  fractious,  like  a naughty  and  spoiled 
child,  often,  peevish  and  generally  requiring 
management : but  she  was  amenable  to  manage- 
ment. Faustulus  veiy  soon  discovered  that 
there  was  no  managing  Tullia;  she  was  not 

babyish,  and  indulged  in  no  half -absurd  tan- 

193 


194 


FAUSTULA 


trums,  but  she  had  a hard,  dogged  ill-temper 
of  her  own  that  never  made  her  ridiculous  but 
could  make  her  rather  alarming.  During  that 
very  short  visit  to  Olibanum  Tullia  was  de- 
termined to  show  that  she  regarded  Faustula 
as  a member  not  of  her  family,  but  of  Sabina’s : 
and  she  did  it  very  successfully.  Without 
troubling  to  warn  her  husband  in  words  that 
he  was  not  to  make  much  of  his  little  daughter, 
or  seem  to  remember  particularly  that  she  was 
his  daughter,  he  was  warned  by  her  own  be- 
haviour. If  he  could  have  got  Faustula  to 
himself  he  might  have  petted  her,  and  laughed 
with  her,  as  before.  Tullia,  however,  saw  to  it 
that  they  never  were  alone.  He  understood 
quite  well:  in  the  first  place  that  his  wife  was 
not  attracted  by  his  daughter : in  the  second  that 
Tullia  wished  it  to  be  clearly  understood  that 
the  fact  of  his  second  marriage  was  to  make  no 
difference  in  the  arrangements  with  regard  to 
F austula  that  had  been  working  before  it.  Sa- 
bina had  chosen  to  take  the  child,  and  would 
have  kept  her  if  Faustulus  had  remained  away 
or  remained  a widower;  let  her  keep  her  still. 

“Your  father,”  Sabina  observed,  when  he  and 
his  wife  had  gone  away,  “is  supposed  to  be 
clever.  He  has  made  two  uncommonly  stupid 
marriages.”  ^ 

F austula  never  saw  him  again  till  her  aunt’s 


FAUSTULA 


195 


death  made  it  absolutely  necessary  he  should 
fetch  her  home.  During  the  interval  of  nearly 
f our  years  she  could  not  help  coming  to  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  his  total  neglect  of  her: 
and  Sabina,  by  a word  now  and  then,  certainly 
helped  her. 

In  one  thing  at  all  events  the  aunt  and  niece 
were  agreed  and  that  was  their  strong  and  not 
unjust  dislike  of  Tullia.  Their  great  desire 
was  never  to  see  her  again,  and  till  Sabina 
died,  Faustula  had  hardly  supposed  she  would 
see  her.  The  autocrat  of  Olibanum  was  fully 
resolved  not  to  invite  her  there,  and  it  may  be 
presumed  that  Tullia  had  no  desire  to  go.  If 
Faustulus  ever  thought  of  going  alone  she  took 
care  he  should  do  no  such  thing. 

How  unwelcome  Faustula  was  in  her  father’s 
home  no  one  could  know  better  than  herself, 
and  her  obvious  sense  of  it  made  her  more  un- 
welcome still. 

Tullia  had  now  a baby  of  her  own,  an  ugly 
little  thing  as  yet,  with  a most  gratuitous  re- 
semblance to  his  half-brother  Tatius.  That  he 
was  ugly  his  mother  perceived  quite  plainly, 
but,  as  she  was  very  handsome  herself,  she 
blamed  Faustulus,  especially  as  the  child  was 
like  his  own  disagreeable  son.  All  the  same 
Faustula’s  almost  startling  beauty  was  a griev- 
ance: if  he  could  have  lovely  daughters,  that 


196 


FAUSTULA 


were  no  daughter  of  Tullia’s,  why  could  not 
he  have  a handsome  son? 

When  it  turned  out  that  there  was  scarcely 
any  money  for  Faustula  her  stepmother  was 
nearly  beside  herself.  Sabina’s  injustice  was 
unpardonable.  Faustulus  had  never  troubled 
to  be  just  himself,  and  was  never  surprised 
to  find  other  people  no  better  than  himself : but 
he  felt  the  inconvenience  of  Sabina’s  backward- 
ness in  the  matter. 

“Tatius,”  said  Tullia  angrily,  “must  make  it 
up.  He  will  be  enormously  wealthy,  and,  as 
Flavia  is  provided  for,  he  has  Faustula  to  think 
of.” 

“He  will  think,”  suggested  Faustulus,  “of 
himself.” 

“He  must  provide  for  Faustula.  It  is  bad 
enough  we  should  have  her  on  our  hands  till 
she  can  marry — and  she  is  not  ten  yet.  At 
least  he  must  furnish  a handsome  dowry,  and 
let  it  be  known  that  there  will  be  one.” 

Her  husband  knew  better. 

“It  will  not,”  he  remarked  airily,  “occur  to 
him.” 

“Occur  to  him ! You  must  put  it  before  him. 
He  is  your  son.” 

As  Tatius  was  now  very  rich  his  stepmother 
could  readily  remember  this : that  F austula  was 
aer  husband’s  daughter  she  never  reminded  him. 


FAUSTULA  197 

“Z  shall  if  you  don’t/’  she  declared  with  de- 
termination. 

“Do.  It  would  be  more  graceful,”  said 
Faustulus  with  a queer  smile. 

Graceful  or  no,  she  was  as  good  as  her  word 
and  sent  for  Tatius,  who  came  when  it  suited 
him.  His  stepmother  had  hitherto  treated  him 
as  a boor,  and  he  was  not  the  least  impressed  by 
her  quite  different  demeanour  now.  It  was 
part  of  the  advantage  of  being  rich,  and  he 
liked  it  well  enough,  but  he  intended  to  keep  his 
new  advantages  to  himself.  So  long  as  he  was 
spending  his  aunt’s  money  he  had  been  extrava- 
gant, now  it  was  his  own  he  meant  to  look 
carefully  to  it. 

“Sabina,”  said  Tullia  gravely,  “has  not  been 
very  kind  to  your  little  sister.” 

“Oh,  I don’t  think  you  should  say  that.  For 
a good  many  years  she  has  done  everything  for 
her.” 

“She  adopted  her.” 

“Oh  no,  she  didn’t.  When  my  mother  died 
she  had  her  on  a visit — it  lasted  ten  years.” 

“But  she  left  her  no  dowry.  How  can  your 
sister  marry  without  one?” 

“Faustula,  you  see,  was  not  only  her  niece, 
but  my  father’s  daughter  also.  Sabina  prob- 
ably remembered  that.” 

“She  probably  remembered  that  Faustula  is 


198  FAUSTULA 

your  sister — and  she  made  you  her  universal 
heir.” 

“Her  universal  heir,  yes.  That  is  so. 
Flavia  is  also  my  sister.” 

“Flavia  is  provided  for.  That  has  nothing 
to  do  with  it.” 

“I  think  it  has.  If  she  is  provided  for,  and  I 
am  provided  for — as  I am  pretty  well — our 
father  has  only  Faustula  to  think  of.” 

“Only  Faustula ! You  forget  I have  a son.” 

“Not  at  all.  He  is  your  son — quite  well  I 
hope  ? He  seemed  croupy  last  time  I was  here. 
All  your  children  will  be  your  sons  or  your 
daughters;  and  I am  glad  to  know  that  you 
have  plenty  of  money.  My  poor  mother  had 
very  little ” 

“So  I have  heard,”  Tullia  interrupted  un- 
pleasantly. 

“You  heard  quite  right.  My  father,  there- 
fore, must  think  in  the  first  instance  of  Faus- 
tula.” 

“How  can  he  provide  for  her?  Our  ex- 
penses are  enormous ” 

“You  must  teach  him,”  observed  Tatius,  who 
thought  it  his  turn  to  interrupt,  “to  manage 
better.  You  can  if  you  like.  You  have  the 
character  of  being  an  excellent  manager — I’m 
sure  you  deserve  it.” 

Tullia  ardently  longed  to  box  his  large  ears 


FAUSTULA 


199 


and  it  made  him  enjoy  himself  very  much.  Fie 
knew  they  were  rich  ears  and  quite  safe.  He 
did  not  specially  dislike  his  stepmother,  but  he 
rather  disapproved  of  her  existence  in  that  ca- 
pacity, and  was  firmly  decided  on  allowing  her 
to  make  no  assault  on  his  money-bags. 

As  for  Faustula  she  was  beautiful  as  he  was 
ugly.  Let  someone  marry  her  for  her  beauty, 
he  would  have  no  difficulty  in  finding  an  eligible 
wife  without  any.  He  could  not  make  a will 
till  he  was  twenty-five:  but  he  could  manage 
his  own  property  and  he  had  not  the  smallest 
impatience  about  making  a will — who  has  ? 

If  Faustula’s  chance  of  finding  a suitable 
husband  depended  on  his  providing  her  a dowry 
she  would  certainly  not  marry  young.  Why 
should  she  marry  young?  It  did  not  concern 
him.  Why  should  she  marry  at  all?  He 
rather  enjoyed  the  idea  of  his  beautiful  sister 
going  a-begging  for  a husband. 

Suddenly  quite  a brilliant  idea  occurred  to 
him. 

“Perhaps,”  he  remarked  carelessly,  rising  as 
if  he  meant  to  go,  “Faustula  may  never  need  a 
dowry.” 

“How  can  she  marry  without  one!” 

“Every  noble  Roman  girl  does  not  marry,” 
he  suggested  coldly.  “Some  become  Vestals.” 


CHAPTER  XX 


As  Tatius  walked  away  from  his  father’s 
house  he  smiled  complacently : he  thought 
he  had  not  done  badly.  His  stepmother  had 
the  name  of  being  clever,  but  she  had  not  been 
clever  enough  for  him. 

Having  nowhere  particular  to  go  at  that 
moment,  he  thought  he  would  stroll  round  by 
the  Forum  Romanum  and  have  a look  at  the 
Atrium  Vestas. 

The  House  of  the  Faustuli  stood  between 
the  Lupercal  and  the  Temple  of  Romulus,  al- 
most under  the  cliff  of  the  Palatine;  turning 
to  his  right,  down  the  Vicus  Tuscus,  Tatius 
passed  into  the  Forum  between  the  temple  of 
Augustus  and  the  temple  of  Castor  and  Pol- 
lux: this  brought  him  to  the  small  open  space 
in  which  was  the  Lacus  Juturnse,  a square  tank, 
or  small  pool,  lined  with  marble,  the  water  of 
which  was  used  in  the  temples  being  regarded 
as  sacred,  for  it  was  here  the  Heavenly  Twins 
watered  their  horses  after  the  battle  of  the  Lake 
Regillus.  Equestrian  statues  of  the  demi-gods 
still  stood  here;  and  close  by  was  the  circular 
Temple  of  Vesta  not  more  than  a hundred  and 

fifty  years  old  as  Tatius  saw  it,  for  it  had  been 

200 


FAUSTULA 


201 


rebuilt,  after  its  last  burning  under  Commodus, 
by  the  Empress  Julia  Domna,  wife  of  Septi- 
mus Severus. 

The  actual  convent  of  the  Vestals,  the 
Atrium  Vestas,  adjoined  it,  and  Tatius  stood 
still  to  have  a good  look  at  it.  It  had  suddenly 
acquired  rather  a special  interest  for  him. 

“Vale!”  said  a voice  almost  in  his  ear,  a few 
moments  after  he  had  begun  his  observations. 
“How  are  you?” 

Tatius  turned  quickly,  but  he  knew  the  voice 
before  turning,  and  blushed  a little.  He 
hardly  ever  could  speak  to  his  father  without 
blushing. 

“I  am  quite  well,”  he  answered,  however, 
with  much  less  than  his  usual  awkward  diffi- 
dence. The  glow  of  his  recent  successful  pas- 
sages with  Tullia  was  not  yet  evaporated.  He 
mentioned,  in  a way  that  was  meant  to  be  airy 
and  unconcerned,  like  his  father’s,  that  he  had 
been  to  see  her. 

“She  must  have  been  charmed,”  observed 
Faustulus  sweetly. 

“She  sent  for  me.  Chiefly,  it  seemed,  to 
complain  of  Sabina.” 

“Of  Sabina!  I thought  her  offences  had 
come  to  an  end.  But  she  was  rich,  and  the  evil 
that  the  rich  can  do  lives  after  them.  How- 
ever she  did  no  harm  to  you  that  way.” 


202 


FAUSTULA 


Faustulus  did  not  speak  with  irritation  as  his 
wife  had  done : on  the  contrary  his  tone  was  full 
of  amiable  congratulation. 

“She  did  you  some  little  good  that  way  too,” 
Tatius  remarked  as  hardily  as  he  could.  But 
that  he  knew  himself  a richer  man  now  than  his 
father,  he  could  not  have  plucked  up  heart  to 
make  such  a hint  at  all. 

“She  left  back  to  me  the  sum  she  had  re- 
ceived as  a dowry  from  my  father,”  said  Faus- 
tulus, who  knew  that  his  son  must  be  aware  of 
it. 

“Has  Tullia  suggested  you  should  reserve  the 
money  as  a dowry  for  Faustula?  She  seems 
much  concerned  about  Faustula’s  dowry.” 

Tatius  was  fully  conscious  of  his  imperti- 
nence: he  could  not,  even  now,  look  his  father 
in  the  face:  but  he  could  be  insolent;  that  was 
one  of  the  pleasures  of  being  rich. 

“No.  She  has  not  yet  made  that  sugges- 
tion,” replied  Faustulus.  “Perhaps  you  made 
it  to  her?” 

“No  I didn’t.  It  didn’t  occur  to  me — I had 
another  idea.” 

Faustulus  smiled  amiably.  He  had  found 
out  what  he  wanted  to  know.  The  truth  was, 
he  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  inform  his 
wife  of  his  own  legacy.  He  preferred  to  keep 
it  as  a comfortable  private  fund  to  draw  on  as 


FAUSTULA 


203 


he  chose.  It  would  have  been  tiresome  if  Ta- 
tius  had  mentioned  it. 

“I  had  another  idea,”  Tatius  repeated  with 
a lumpish  carelessness. 

“You  were  always  full  of  ideas,”  his  father 
declared,  as  though  alluding  to  what  everyone 
knew. 

The  youth  blushed  more  angrily. 

“It’s  all  very  well,”  he  said  sullenly,  “to  be 
full  of  ideas  when  you  have  nothing  else  in 
your  pocket.  I have.” 

“You  mean  money?  Certainly.  It  shines 
out  of  you ; but  remember  all  money  is  not  cop- 
per-coloured.” 

The  coppery  glow  did  not  die  out  of  the  lad’s 
face  and  neck.  He  could  not  trust  himself  to 
speak:  for  he  knew  well  that  the  more  passion- 
ately he  showed  his  rage  the  more  his  father 
would  enjoy  it. 

They  had  not  stood  quite  still,  but  had  moved 
on  a little  and  were  now  quite  near  the  entrance 
of  the  Vestals’  convent. 

There  was  a sort  of  fuss  and  movement 
among  the  few  other  counterers  and  passers-by, 
and  they  saw  the  reason  in  a moment.  One  of 
the  Vestals  in  her  litter  was  approaching  from 
the  Via  Sacra,  surrounded  by  a small  throng  of 
attendants.  The  door  of  the  Atrium  opened 
and  she  was  carried  in. 


204 


FAUSTULA 


Both  father  and  son  watched  her  arrival  and 
disappearance  with  a careless  attention  that 
could  not  amount  to  curiosity,  for  the  sight  was 
too  common.  But  Tatius  took  in  the  details 
with  a certain  interest  that  did  not  escape  Faus- 
tulus.  Very  little  ever  did  escape  him. 

“Do  you  know  her?”  he  asked  lightly. 

“I?  No.  I could  not  even  see  her  face. 
She  may  be  the  Vestalis  Maxima  for  all  I 
know.” 

“She  is  not  the  Vestalis  Maxima.  She  had 
too  few  attendants,  and  the  poles  of  her  litter 
were  only  of  carved  ivory  with  gold  rings.” 

“It  is  a fine  thing  to  be  a Vestal,”  observed 
Tatius  slowly. 

“So  I told  your  Aunt  Sabina  long  ago.  I 
told  her  it  would  have  suited  me  very  well.” 

“And  did  she  believe  you?”  the  graceless  son 
inquired,  with  a thickly  facetious  grin.  “I  am 
glad,  however,”  he  went  on,  “that  you  did  not 
yield  to  your  natural  inclinations,  or  I should 
not  be  here.” 

“So  I was  thinking,”  retorted  Faustulus  im- 
perturbably— “when  I mentioned  my  regret  to 
Sabina.” 

“As  I am  here,”  said  Tatius,  “and  as  Faus- 
tula  is  here,  why  should  not  she  become  a Ves- 
tal in  your  place?” 


CHAPTER  XXI 


s Faustulus  strolled  home  alone  he  was 


thinking  of  the  suggestion  his  son  had  so 
abruptly  made. 

If  anything  could  have  decided  him  against 
a suggestion  it  would  have  been  that  it  had 
originated  with  his  son:  Tatius  hated  him  bit- 
terly, a fact  which  he  perceived  with  perfect 
equanimity.  He  did  not  hate  him  bitterly  in 
return,  for  bitterness  galls  the  hater,  and  Faus- 
tulus had  not  the  least  intention  of  allowing 
himself  to  be  galled  by  anything  he  so  coldly 
despised.  But  he  disliked  him,  as  strongly  as 
he  disliked  any  of  his  contemporaries. 

Faustulus,  however,  was  not  one  of  those 
stiff  persons  who  turn  from  gifts  merely  be- 
cause Greeks  bring  them.  He  preferred  to 
consider  the  gifts  themselves,  on  their  merits. 
If  they  proved  useful,  what  matter  whence 
they  came  ? 

Till  the  moment  that  Tatius  had  asked  “Why 
should  not  Faustula  become  a Vestal?”  the  idea 
had  never  occurred  to  his  father:  but,  though 
it  had  originated  in  the  dull  brain  of  his  son, 
there  might  be  something  in  it. 

Dowiy  or  no  dowry,  Faustula  could  marry 


206 


FAUSTULA 


nobody  for  years  to  come — what  years  they 
would  be  for  her,  and  for  him!  He  knew  his 
wife  by  this  time  very  well,  and  it  was  not  hard 
for  a man  of  his  imagination  to  picture  the  slow 
misery  the  child  would  endure:  and  misery 
which  he  must  himself  witness  was  horribly  re- 
pugnant to  him.  Just  as  Tullia  was  selfishly 
ill-natured,  so  was  he  selfishly  good-natured. 
He  was  quite  aware  that  she  could  even  he 
cruel,  and  he  realized,  though  not  fully,  what 
effect  cruelty  would  have  on  such  a nature  as 
Faustula’s.  He  perceived  her  capable  of  hard 
antagonism,  and  had  also  an  instinctive  percep- 
tion that  for  himself  there  would  be  neither 
ease  nor  peace  between  the  child  and  her  step- 
mother. It  would  age  him.  He  felt  already 
that  time  was  robbing  him.  Tatius  could  not 
brave  him  with  rank  impertinence  if  he  were 
himself  what  he  had  been. 

If  Faustula  became  a Vestal,  she  would  be 
out  of  Tullia’s  reach,  and  Tullia  would  have  no 
special  animosity  towards  her:  would  practi- 
cally forget  her,  as  she  had  done  these  four 
years  past.  And  Faustula  would  be  provided 
for;  would  be,  in  fact,  rich  and  even  important: 
the  Vestals  were  not  what  they  had  been,  but 
their  wealth  was  untouched,  and  an  archaic 
flavour  of  importance  hung  about  them  still. 

F or  his  daughter  to  become  wealthy,  without 


FAUSTULA 


207 


the  least  trouble  or  self-sacrifice  of  his  own, 
would  be  extremely  pleasant:  and  for  her  to 
be  out  of  range  of  his  wife’s  ill-will  would  be 
as  pleasant  for  himself  as  for  her.  The  pros- 
pect of  seeing  her  bullied  by  Tullia  every  day 
for  years  was  intensely  painful  to  him. 

It  seemed  to  him,  with  his  quick,  imaginative 
powers,  never  quicker  than  when  fashioning  a 
future  to  his  taste,  that  perhaps,  very  probably, 
the  College  of  Vestals  would  be  suppressed 
some  day — say  in  a dozen  years  or  so.  If  that 
happened,  and  as  it  suited  him  to  believe  it 
would  happen,  he  now  almost  took  it  for 
granted  it  must  happen,  the  vested  interests  of 
the  existing  Vestals  would  be  compensated,  and 
each  of  them  would  receive  a very  large  sum 
out  of  the  estates  of  the  College,  and  with  it 
perfect  freedom.  In  such  circumstances  Faus- 
tula,  at,  say,  two-and-twenty,  would  be  wealthy 
and  independent,  and  would  certainly  not  have 
out-grown  her  beauty. 

Tullia  had  also  been  weighing  her  stepson’s 
suggestion,  and  was  pondering  in  her  mind  how 
to  present  it  in  the  most  favourable  light.  Not 
knowing  that  her  husband  and  Tatius  had  met, 
she  did  not  feel  it  necessary  to  attribute  the  idea 
to  the  latter,  as  she  was  quite  aware  how  little 
Faustulus  would  be  inclined  to  any  suggestion 
of  his  son’s.  Faustulus  did  not  explain  that 


208 


FAUSTULA 


he  and  Tatius  had  seen  each  other,  and  let  his 
wife  imagine  that  he  supposed  the  plan  had 
occurred  to  her  unaided  wisdom. 

Tullia  was  rather  surprised  to  find  how  easily 
he  listened  to  her  arguments,  and,  thus  en- 
couraged, she  dilated  finely  on  the  advantages 
of  the  scheme. 

“Of  course,”  he  reminded  her,  “we  should 
have  to  await  a vacancy.” 

“We  may  not  have  to  wait  long.  My  father 
mentioned  only  yesterday  that  the  Vestalis 
Maxima  is  dangerously  ill — you  know  she  is  a 
cousin  of  ours.  If  anything  happens  to  her — 
and  she  was  always  delicate,  too  delicate,  in- 
deed, to  marry — that  was  why  she  became  a 
Vestal.  It  is  a wonder  she  has  lasted  all  these 
years.  If  she  dies  the  next  senior  will  take  her 
place  and  there  will  be  a vacancy.” 

Tullia  was  so  clearly  resolved  that  her  cousin 
should  not  recover,  that  Faustulus  could  not 
help  remarking  demurely: 

“She  ought  not  to  waste  too  much  time  about 
it.  Faustula  will  be  ten  in  October,  and  they 
only  admit  them  between  the  ages  of  six  and 
ten.” 

Tullia  evidently  felt  quite  easy  about  it. 
“And  now  it  is  only  April.  Six  months! 
There  is  not  the  least  chance  of  the  Vestalis 
Maxima  lasting  six  months.  My  father 


FAUSTULA 


209 


seemed  to  think  it  a question  of  days ; and  you 
know  how  cautious  he  is.” 

Faustulus  remembered  their  business  inter- 
view before  his  second  marriage,  and  did  not 
dispute  the  admirable  caution  of  Cornelius  Tul- 
lius. 

For  one  thing  he  inwardly  thanked  the  gods 
— the  prospect  of  getting  rid  of  F austula  made 
his  wife  quite  amiable:  she  even  spoke  of  her,  in 
reference  to  Sabina  as  “Poor  Faustula”  no 
longer  as  an  accomplice,  but  merely  as  a victim. 

“The  position,”  she  observed,  almost  as  if  she 
envied  it;  “the  position  of  a Vestal  is  very  good. 
No  women  have  a higher  rank  in  the  State. 
My  cousin  became  one.” 

“So,”  remarked  Faustulus,  who  had  had 
enough  of  her  cousin,  “so  did  my  wife’s  sister.” 
“Oh?  Domitia?  Yes,”  Tullia  remarked 
less  amiably,  after  a pause  of  consideration  as 
if  she  could  not  immediately  remember  to  whom 
he  alluded,  and  also  with  the  air  of  not  knowing 
whether  the  Vestal  College  had  gained  much  by 
having  Accia’s  sister  for  one  of  its  members. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


The  Vestalis  Maxima  justified  Tullia’s 
good  opinion  of  her  and  died  with  all  rea- 
sonable promptitude.  The  senior  of  the  other 
six  Vestals  became  Maxima  in  her  place,  and 
there  was  a vacancy,  which  Faustula  duly  filled. 
There  was  really  no  difficulty  about  it.  Rich 
as  the  Vestals  were,  and  great  as  was  their 
standing,  it  had  never  been  too  easy  to  find  vol- 
unteers. In  all  the  huge  Empire  six  virgins 
of  good,  though  it  might  be  of  plebeian  family, 
could  not  always  be  found  ready  to  sacrifice 
themselves  on  the  chill  altar  of  celibacy:  or 
rather,  since  the  candidates  were  mere  children, 
Roman  fathers  were  not  always  forthcoming, 
prepared  to  devote  an  infant  daughter  to  the 
dazzling  isolation  of  Vesta’s  shrine.  So  true 
was  this  that,  by  the  ancient  law,  if  a vacancy 
occurred,  and  no  child  was  off  ered,  twenty  baby 
girls,  between  six  and  ten  years  old,  were 
chosen,  out  of  whom  one  was  picked  by  lot, 
and  she  had  to  be  a Vestal,  whether  she  liked  it, 
or  her  father  liked  it,  or  not. 

Faustula  was  not  consulted,  she  was  merely 
informed:  and  a Roman  child  of  her  age  had 

no  voice  against  her  father’s.  Her  head  was 

210 


FAUSTULA 


211 


duly  shaved  to  intimate  that  henceforth  she  was 
liberated  from  his  control,  and  her  person  free 
of  his  legal  jurisdiction  over  her:  and  she  was 
told  that  she  could  dispose  of  her  possessions 
as  she  chose.  Having  none,  this  did  not  af- 
fect her  much.  She  shed  some  tears  over  the 
loss  of  her  beautiful  hair,  but  an  ex- Vestal, 
who  attended  to  her,  and  was  getting  bald 
herself,  assured  her  that  it  would  soon  grow 
again.  Those  Vestals  who  at  forty  did  not, 
like  Domitia,  choose  to  return  to  the  world — 
“round  the  corner,”  as  Faustulus  had  put  it 
long  ago — remained  in  the  Atrium,  and  were 
supposed  to  wait  on  the  others,  but  there  were 
plenty  of  slaves,  and  their  offices  were  not 
menial.  Some  of  them  acted  as  a sort  of  dig- 
nified nurse,  or  pedagoga,  to  the  Vestals  who 
were  still  children,  and  the  others  officiated  in 
capacity  of  toady  or  waiting-gentlewoman  to 
the  Vestals  of  maturer  years.  Faustula’s  par- 
ticular attendant  was  called  Plotina,  a woman 
of  nearly  fifty,  who  looked  as  if  she  had  been 
born  at  about  that  age  and  had  never  seen  her 
way  to  get  over  it. 

She  was  uncommonly  ugly  and  had  a hare- 
lip, through  which  her  words  came  in  a queer 
whistle  that  reminded  Faustula  of  the  wind  in 
a keyhole.  But  she  was  a good-natured  old 
thing,  fond  of  gossip  and  of  being  alive,  with 


212 


FAUSTULA 


no  impatience  to  exchange  the  faded  dignity 
of  a superannuated  Vestal  for  more  striking 
glories  in  the  nether  world.  She  came  of  a 
goodish  equestrian  family,  and  devoutly  ad- 
mired the  patrician  splendours  of  Faustula’s 
descent.  Her  own  father  had  been  a better- 
hearted  man  than  Faustulus,  but  an  incurable 
gambler,  and  poor  Plotina  had  meekly  em- 
braced her  destiny,  mindful  of  her  five  sisters 
and  her  own  hare-lip. 

“So  you  never  knew  your  mother,”  she  ex- 
claimed. “Well,  I will  be  a mother  to  you 
here.  I daresay  she  was  a beautiful  person — 
indeed,  it  seems  clear  she  must  have  been. 
And  I am  not.  No.  I never  heard  it  men- 
tioned that  I was  so  by  other  Vestals — at  the 
best  of  times.  But  I remember  how  I felt 
when  I came  here,  though  it’s  forty  years  ago. 
And  I know  how  lonely  you’ll  be.  I missed 
my  brother;  he  was  just  as  fond  of  me  as  he  was 
of  Drusilla  and  Sulpitia;  and  my  father,  too: 
a very  good  man,  though  always  in  debt.  I 
will  try  to  make  you  feel  less  lonely  here.” 

Plotina,  so  far  at  least,  had  done  for  Faus- 
tula  none  of  all  those  countless  acts  of  care 
and  devotion  that  Clodia  had  lavished  on  her: 
but  in  her  desolation  the  child  felt  more  grate- 
ful for  the  old  lady’s  plain  kindness  than  she 
could  ever  recollect  feeling  for  all  the  service 


FAUSTULA 


213 


of  her  beautiful  slave  foster-mother.  Clodia 
had  been  a first  impression,  taken  for  granted, 
as  all  such  first  impressions  are:  it  was  as  nat- 
ural to  find  her  always  at  hand  in  every  need  as 
for  the  needs  to  be  there. 

It  was  after  death  had  removed  her  that  all 
poor  Clodia  had  been  was  realized  by  her  fos- 
ter-child. 

Old  Plotina’s  good  nature  Faustula  had  not 
taken  for  granted,  and  she  was  more  sore  in 
spirit  now  than  she  had  been  at  Olibanum. 
She  knew  very  well  why  it  had  been  decided 
that  she  should  be  a Vestal — because  her 
father’s  wife  wanted  her  out  of  the  way,  and 
because  her  father  was  not  man  enough  to 
assert  himself  in  her  behalf.  Their  parting 
had  been  very  cold;  for  Faustula  took  no  pains 
to  pretend  anything,  and  her  large  deep  eyes 
held  an  expression  that  Faustulus  sustained 
uneasily. 

“You  will  be  quite  near,  just  round  the  cor- 
ner,” he  tried  to  say  with  smiling  cheerfulness. 
“You  will  come  and  see  us  often.” 

“Never,  if  I can  help  it,”  she  answered  with- 
out a smile  of  any  sort. 

From  Tullia  she  parted  with  much  less  of 
suppressed  anger.  It  would  have  been  hateful 
to  live  in  her  house,  and  she  was  glad  to  get 
away:  neither  did  her  dislike  trouble  the  child: 


214 


FAUSTULA 


there  seemed  to  her  nothing  unjust  in  it,  for 
she  disliked  her  too. 

The  actual  Vestals  were  seven,  including 
herself  and  the  newly-promoted  Vestalis  Max- 
ima, there  were  besides  four  superannuated 
Vestals,  and  with  these  eleven  women  her  life 
for  years  to  come  was  to  be  passed,  so  that  she 
considered  them  all  with  attention. 

The  “Maxima”  was  about  thirty-four,  and 
looked  older,  a dry,  leathery  person  with  a 
thick  complexion,  relieved  by  a constellation 
of  warts,  one  of  which  was  on  the  side  of  her 
nose:  rather  short,  rather  stout,  with  short 
blunt  fingers,  and  a flattish  head,  which  the  in- 
fula  so  closely  covered  that  she  looked  as  if 
she  had  no  hair:  the  vittce,  hanging  from  it, 
seemed  to  be  worn  in  memory  of  her  departed 
locks.  Her  name  was  Volumina,  but  she  was 
spoken  of  in  the  Atrium  simply  as  “Maxima.” 
She  was  of  a middling  equestrian  family,  and 
coolly  alert  against  patrician  airs  on  the  part  of 
Vestals  more  aristocratic  than  herself.  She 
was  not  clever  but  shrewd,  and  soon  proved 
herself  a good  administrator  of  the  large  es- 
tates under  her  care.  From  first  to  last  Faus- 
tula  never  found  her  communicative,  or  sym- 
pathetic, but  coldly  observant,  firm  in  disci- 
pline though  not  tyrannical;  holding  herself 
somewhat  aloof  from  all  the  rest,  as  if  relying 


FAUSTULA 


215 


on  her  position  rather  than  on  herself  to  main- 
tain a superiority  which  neither  birth  nor  gen- 
ius would  have  given  her. 

Nothing  escaped  her;  and,  while  she  was 
perfectly  indifferent  to  the  inner  character  of 
those  under  her  rule,  she  was  lynx-eyed  for 
the  preservation  of  all  outward  decorum.  No- 
body denied  that  she  made  a good  Vestalis 
Maxima,  and  nobody  cared  whether  she  were 
alive  or  dead,  nor,  apparently,  did  she  want 
them  to  care. 

Of  the  other  five,  Faustula  chiefly  noted  at 
first  that  they  were  all,  with  one  exception, 
selfish.  As  they  had  different  characters,  it 
showed  itself  in  diff  erent  ways,  but  it  was  pres- 
ent, she  decided,  in  all.  Caria  was  polite  and 
selfish,  Livia  was  surly  and  selfish,  Marcia  was 
greedy  and  selfish,  Tacita  was  vain  and  selfish : 
only  Claudia  did  not  seem  to  be  selfish  at  all. 

The  slight  resemblance  in  her  name  to  Clo- 
dia’s  at  once  made  F austula  specially  observant 
of  this,  the  youngest  of  the  Vestals  except  her- 
self. She  was  not  nearly  so  beautiful  as  Clo- 
dia,  but  her  face  had  a singular  nobility  and 
distinction,  and  an  expression  of  reserved 
sweetness.  She  was  of  a very  high  patrician 
family,  which  had  not  endeared  her  to  the  pres- 
ent “Maxima/’  but  Volumina  watched  in  vain 
for  objectionable  consciousness  of  it.  Livia, 


216 


FAUSTULA 


who  was  also  patrician,  was  continually  al- 
luding to  her  family  and  great  connexions. 

When  Faustula  entered  the  Atrium,  Claudia 
was  not  quite  one-and-twenty,  but  her  staid 
air  made  her  seem  older,  just  as  her  gentle, 
smooth  face,  with  its  clear  complexion,  would 
make  her  appear  younger  than  her  age  in  a 
dozen  years.  She  was  the  only  one  of  the  Ves- 
tals whom  Faustula  thought  in  the  least  beau- 
tiful, though  Tacita,  who  was  six-  or  seven- 
and-twenty,  had  assumed  the  post  of  beauty 
of  the  Atrium  for  about  ten  years. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


Faustula’s  first  impressions  of  the  Vestals 
as  a group  were  formed  during  supper 
on  the  evening  of  her  first  day  in  the  Atrium, 
though  she  had  been  presented  to  each  of  them 
before.  The  meal  surprised  her  by  its  length 
and  by  the  costly  manner  of  its  service.  The 
Triclinium  was  not  large,  but  it  was  splendidly 
adorned,  and  the  plates  and  dishes  were  of  gold 
and  of  exquisite  workmanship,  so  were  the 
lamps  and  so  were  the  wine-goblets;  the  food 
was  delicate  and  in  abundant  variety,  and  the 
wines  were  of  the  best  vintage. 

The  Vestals’  table  had  returned  ends  at  one 
of  which  was  F austula’s  own  place : that  oppo- 
site was  vacant,  for  it  was  Claudia’s,  and  she 
was  on  duty,  in  charge  of  the  Sacred  Fire.- 
The  Vestalis  Maxima  had  her  place  in  the 
centre  of  the  long  portion  of  the  table,  with 
two  Vestals  on  each  side  of  her.  There  was  a 
much  shorter  table  opposite,  at  which  the  four 
ex- Vestals  ate. 

The  Vestalis  Maxima  did  not  talk  much, 
and  evidently  did  not  expect  anyone  to  speak 
to  her  unless  addressed  first.  If  Li  via,  who 
was  on  her  right,  chose  to  ignore  this  procedure 

217 


218 


FAUSTULA 


and  made  a remark  intended  for  her,  she  either 
did  not  notice  it,  and  appeared  to  suppose  it  was 
meant  for  Caria,  who  was  next  to  Livia  on  the 
other  side,  or  merely  nodded  without  making 
any  reply. 

Faustula  perceived  that  this  irritated  Livia, 
but  that  the  others  did  not  care.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  Livia  was  not  popular,  and  that  any 
small  snub  administered  to  her  rather  pleased 
them.  Faustula  also  noticed  that  when  she 
had  thus  addressed  Volumina  without  eliciting 
any  response,  the  “Maxima”  would  presently 
make  some  remark  to  Marcia,  who  had  the 
place  on  her  left,  as  second  senior  after  Livia. 

Marcia  was  quite  content  to  eat  without 
much  conversation;  the  two  meals  of  the  day 
were  its  two  principal  events  for  her.  She  was 
over  thirty  but  looked  a good  deal  younger 
than  either  Volumina  or  Livia.  She  was 
plump,  and  had  little  gleaming  eyes  that 
seemed  to  grow  annually  smaller  as  her  smooth 
cheeks  grew  rounder.  Livia,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  meagre  and  spare,  hut  not  because 
she  starved  herself,  for  she  ate  quite  as  much 
as  Marcia,  but  she  swallowed  her  food  in  a 
hasty,  impatient  way,  as  if  she  were  hiding  it, 
and  defying  it  to  make  her  fat.  She  had  al- 
ways finished  her  portion  of  each  dish  long 
before  anyone  else. 


FAUSTULA 


219 


The  Vestalis  Maxima  did  not  eat  with  Mar- 
cia’s affectionate  deliberation,  nor  with  Livia’s 
snappy  haste,  but  with  an  air  of  reasoned  mod- 
eration. Moderation  was  her  sheet-anchor: 
she  never  did  anything  too  much,  or  too  little, 
too  quick  or  too  slow.  Her  speech,  her  gait, 
her  ideas,  her  temper  were  all  perfectly  moder- 
ate: she  never  chattered,  or  hurried,  or  gave 
way  to  too  much  intelligence,  or  too  much  an- 
ger. If  she  found  fault  with  anyone  it  was 
quite  coolly,  and  if  she  commended  anything 
it  was  even  more  coolly. 

Even  her  way  of  eating  illustrates  this:  she 
was  not  greedy,  and  never  ate  an  ounce  more 
than  she  could  digest  with  ease;  but  food  is  not 
unimportant,  and  she  gave  it  a first  atten- 
tion. When  she  addressed  a brief  remark  to 
Marcia  it  was  often  to  commend  a particular 
dish. 

“This  I find  wholesome,”  she  would  say, 
which  meant  in  her  decorous  mouth  that  it 
pleased  her  palate.  All  she  ate  was  whole- 
some to  her,  for  she  had  an  excellent  digestion 
and  nothing  ever  disagreed  with  her. 

Marcia  liked  such  commendations  and  took 
them  as  personal  compliments;  she  was  CEco- 
noma,  and  all  the  meals  were  ordered  by  her 
with  thoughtful  care.  Just  as  some  women 
are  more  flattered  by  praise  of  their  clothes 


220 


FAUSTULA 


than  by  praise  of  themselves,  and  more  insulted 
if  you  hint  that  such  a dress  does  not  suit  them 
than  if  you  were  to  accuse  them  of  a fault  of 
character,  so  Marcia  was  inclined  to  think  the 
best  of  anyone  who  showed  appreciation  of  her 
dishes,  and  had  but  a poor  opinion  of  any 
who  suggested  that  such  a meat  was  too  rich  or 
over-seasoned. 

She  was  too  much  occupied  with  her  supper 
to  take  any  notice  of  Faustula,  and  Volumina 
took  none  because  she  had  said  all  that  was  nec- 
essary already. 

Livia  did  not  say  anything  either,  but  she 
often  employed  her  leisure,  after  gulping  down 
her  food,  by  looking  at  her.  Her  expression 
seemed  to  say,  “Yes.  You  too  are  patrician. 
But  I know  all  about  you.”  And  more  than 
once,  after  one  of  these  hard,  sharp  glances, 
she  would  say  something  in  a low  voice  to  Caria 
that  Faustula  was  sure  was  about  herself. 

Nearest  to  Faustula  was  Tacita,  who  now 
and  then  addressed  some  small  observation  to 
her:  she  was  in  the  main  a good-natured  per- 
son, and  the  child’s  great  beauty  did  not  disturb 
her  yet.  But  conversation  was  not  her  strong 
point,  and  Faustula  was  not  impressed  by  the 
brilliance  or  sense  of  her  remarks. 

“You  did  not  like  having  your  head  shaved,” 
she  said  with  a pretty  smile. 


FAUSTULA 


221 


“No.” 

“Ah!  Nor  did  I — I had  beautiful  hair. 
But  it  will  soon  grow  again.  You  know  it  is 
only  shaved  once.  I daresay  yours  will  grow 
very  soon.  Mine  took  longer;  it  was  so  very 
long.” 

She  smiled  again,  partly  out  of  good-nature 
and  partly  because  she  had  lovely  teeth,  and  be- 
cause she  knew  that  smiling  improves  the  shape 
of  the  mouth. 

Her  next  remark,  after  a pause,  was: 

“You  find  the  vittce  inconvenient?” 

“Yes,  the  ends  of  them  fall  into  my  plate.” 
Tacita  smiled  once  more. 

“So  they  do  at  first;  mine  did.  But  I soon 
learned  to  manage  them.  The  only  thing  is  to 
remember  them  constantly  till  you  are  used  to 
them.  They  are  not  becoming  . . .” 

“I  think  them  hideous.” 

“Oh,  hideous?” 

Tacita  lifted  her  eyebrows  as  though  depre- 
cating such  a violent  term  as  applied  to  any- 
thing she  wore  herself. 

“Hideous?  Well,  that  is  rather  strong. 
The  thing  is  to  accommodate  them  to  one’s 
face.  One  must  think  it  out.  A good  appear- 
ance requires  attention.  All  important  matters 
do.  After  all  they  are  a distinction:  only  Ves- 
tals may  wear  them.” 


222  FAUSTULA 

“I  should  not  think  anyone  else  would  want 
to  wear  them.” 

“Oh!  well.  I do  not  think  one  should  say 
that.” 

Tacita  was  strongly  scandalized,  and  might 
have  squeezed  her  lips  into  a little  grimace  of 
disapproval,  but  she  never  did  squeeze  her  lips, 
because  it  is  a habit  that  spoils  the  mouth  and 
induces  wrinkles  about  it. 

“The  pallium,”  she  observed,  to  change  the 
subject,  “the  pallium  is  very  graceful.  But, 
of  course,  one  does  not  wear  it  at  meals.  And 
the  suffibulum — there  is  a majesty  about  the 
suffibulum.  But,  of  course,  one  only  wears  it 
when  sacrificing.” 

Tacita  always  said  “of  course”  when  there 
was  no  obvious  and  inherent  necessity  about 
the  matter. 

When  she  stopped  talking  Faustula  looked 
down  the  row  of  four  superannuated  Vestals 
at  right  angles  to  herself  on  her  left.  One  of 
them  seemed  extraordinarily  old,  and  had  a skin 
like  a withered  apple:  one  was  not  much  past 
forty  and  would  have  been  Vestalis  Maxima 
instead  of  Volumina  had  she  been  a year  or  two 
younger ; one  had  a crooked  back,  and  cowered 
over  the  table  in  a sidelong  fashion;  the  fourth 
was  Plotina,  whom  Faustula  had  scarcely 
spoken  to  yet. 


FAUSTULA 


223 


As  Faustula  turned  her  eyes  away  from 
them  they  met  Tacita’s,  who  smiled  again  and 
said  in  a low  voice : 

“Are  they  not  queer!  But  they  are  so  old. 
They  can’t  help  it.” 

It  did  not  seem  to  occur  to  Tacita  that  she 
would  also  become  old ; but  it  occurred  sharply 
to  Faustula.  Would  she  also  grow  like  that  ? 

The  oldest  of  the  ex-Vestals  had  a face  like 
a monkey,  and  talked  in  a gabbling  way  that 
twisted  her  mouth  into  all  sorts  of  wry  shapes. 
Plotina’s  replies,  whistling  through  her  hare- 
lip, were  quite  audible  and  were  not  less  queer. 
The  hunchback  had  a trick  of  peeping  round 
herself  as  if  her  back  were  a corner  behind  which 
she  was  watching  the  company.  The  youngest 
of  the  four  had  a long  nose  that  ran  out,  like  a 
dog’s,  and  scarcely  any  chin. 

Almost  the  only  old  person  of  her  own  class 
Faustula  had  ever  known  yet  was  Acilia,  and 
the  thought  of  her  came  now  into  her  mind,  by  a 
force  rather  of  contrast  than  of  association. 
Acilia  was  dead  now  nearly  a year ; Christopher 
and  Fabian  were  no  longer  in  Rome,  so  there 
had  been  no  one  for  Faustula  to  take  leave  of. 
That  did  not  make  her  seem  less  lonely  where 
she  was:  to  turn  your  back  on  the  world,  of 
your  own  free-will,  because  you  are  content  to 
give  it  up  for  God,  as  the  Christian  religion 


224 


FAUSTULA 


does,  costs  much,  but,  like  all  generous  renun- 
ciations, brings  its  own  consolation:  Faustula 
knew  that  she  had  not  given  up  the  world,  but 
had  been  thrust  out  of  it,  because  her  presence 
in  it  was  an  encumbrance. 

Hard,  I think,  must  be  the  heart  that  can 
judge  her  harshly  if  she  felt  bitter,  or  with  an 
unchildish  coldness  of  observation  she  scanned 
her  splendid  prison  and  her  fellow-captives,  and 
disliked  both. 

Squeezed  as  it  was  into  the  crowded  Forum 
the  Atrium  was  large  for  its  situation,  huge  in 
proportion  to  its  purpose  as  a dwelling  for  a 
handful  of  women:  but  to  Faustula  it  seemed 
cramped  enough  after  the  big  castle  at  Oli- 
banum.  And  she  was  utterly  unused  to  be  shut 
indoors:  of  course  there  was  no  garden,  and, 
Roman  as  she  was  by  birth,  she  had  lived  all  her 
life  in  the  country  among  the  free  and  solemn 
mountains.  It  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  no 
air  and  she  almost  stifled  for  the  Sabine 
winds. 

As  for  the  Vestals  they  were  well  enough: 
but  in  their  loveless  company  how  could  she 
find  a home?  Small  as  the  group  was  it  had  no 
real  union : there  was,  she  could  see  clearly,  and 
in  this  she  saw  justly  too,  no  bond  of  any  com- 
mon affection  between  them.  They  wore  the 
same  dress,  and  had  a common  financial  inter- 


FAUSTULA  225 

est  in  the  riches  of  their  college;  there  was  no 
deeper  tie. 

Faustula  knew  that  all  these  women  had 
been  brought  here  as  children,  between  six  years 
old  and  ten;  she  supposed  they  had  been  con- 
sulted as  little  as  she  had  been  and  to  her  they 
seemed  merely  splendid  outcasts,  and  she  im- 
agined that  she  read  it  in  their  bearing  and  char- 
acters. Each  stood  alone,  for  herself,  in  an  iso- 
lation that  numbed  and  hardened  her. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


There  were  a great  number  of  rooms  in  the 
Atrium  Vestas  and  each  Vestal  had  at  least 
two  for  her  own  use : besides  there  was  the  com- 
mon Tablinum,  the  Triclinium,  the  Archivium, 
the  Treasury,  the  Penus  Vestas  and  Sacred 
Chamber  of  the  Palladium,  baths,  kitch- 
ens, etc. : the  rest  of  the  rooms  being  occupied 
by  the  slaves. 

After  supper  the  Vestalis  Maxima  led  the 
way  to  the  Tablinum,  and,  as  long  as  she  re- 
mained, the  others  stayed  too.  But  she  did  not 
remain  long,  and  when  she  had  withdrawn  the 
conversation  became  rather  less  dull  and  per- 
functory. It  was  chiefly  gossip,  and  as  the 
Vestals  were  not  confined  to  the  Atrium,  hut 
went  out  into  the  city  as  they  chose,  they  had 
plenty  of  news  to  discuss.  Their  talk  did  not 
interest  F austula  and  she  slipped  away,  though 
even  moving  about  made  her  feel  queer  in  her 
unaccustomed  garments.  As  long  as  her  hair 
had  been  on  her  head  she  had  never  thought  of 
it;  now  it  was  shorn  off  she  seemed  to  feel  ev- 
ery several  hair  scraping  against  the  infula. 
The  zona  kept  working  loose,  because  it  was 

new  and  hard,  and  would  slip  down;  and,  tall 

226 


FAUSTULA  227 

as  she  was  for  her  age,  her  stola  was  too  long 
and  almost  tripped  her  up. 

Lifting  the  gorgeous  curtain  that  hung  over 
the  wide  doorway  of  the  tablinum,  she  crept 
out  noiselessly  into  the  ambulatory,  paved 
with  exquisite  mosaic,  and  divided  from  the 
courtyard  by  a row  of  splendid  marble  col- 
umns. In  the  courtyard  were  stiff  groups  and 
rows  of  shrubs  in  memory  of  the  Sacred  Grove 
of  Vesta.  It  was  dark  now,  though  not  late, 
and  the  moonlight  shining  down  into  the  peri- 
stylium,  made  them  look  as  if  they  were  of 
metal. 

Faustula  wandered  out  into  the  courtyard 
and  amused  herself  by  examining  the  statues 
of  Vestales  Maximse  of  which  there  seemed, 
without  counting,  to  be  an  immense  number. 
Those  on  one  side  were  in  black  shadow,  on 
those  opposite  the  moon  cast  down  an  un- 
earthly radiance.  She  liked  them  better  than 
the  living  Vestals:  cold  as  their  white  faces 
were,  they  were  more  human,  she  thought, 
and  their  silence  was  more  dignified.  One  had 
an  expression  of  resting  fatigue,  as  if  it  were 
less  tedious  being  a statue  than  a living  Ves- 
tal. One  wore  a half-smile,  as  though,  hav- 
ing lifted  Death’s  pale  curtain  she  were  say- 
ing, “Is  that  all?” 

There  was  one  whose  face  was  really  beau- 


228 


FAUSTULA 


tiful,  but  the  expression  was  intensely  sad. 
Little  Faustula  stood  long  in  front  of  the 
statue,  till  it  almost  seemed  that  the  full,  pas- 
sionate lips  trembled.  Then,  with  a hasty 
sense  of  meanness,  as  if  detecting  herself  in 
trying  to  read  a dead  woman’s  secrets,  she 
moved  on  to  the  next.  This  was  a woman  as 
young-looking  as  the  last,  and  handsome  too, 
but  the  lips  curved  in  a scorn  that  was  bitter 
and  resentful,  and  the  brows  frowned  over 
the  full  sightless  eyes. 

Faustula  did  not  like  her,  but  felt  an  odd 
attraction  towards  her,  and  stood  longer 
here. 

“She  hated  it!”  she  whispered  to  herself. 
She  did  not  now  feel  ashamed  of  herself:  she 
had  no  compunctious  sense  of  surprising  dead 
secrets:  there  was  no  secret,  as  it  seemed  to 
her. 

This  Vestal’s  face  was  noble  but  spoiled: 
the  lines  were  all  fine  and  told  of  a high  na- 
ture; nothing  base  or  sensual  was  hinted;  but 
the  expression  breathed  in  every  curve  of  lip, 
and  jaw,  and  chin,  was  of  hard  antagonism, 
an  enmity  levelled  against  all  mankind  and 
most  ruthlessly  against  herself. 

“She  hated  it!”  Faustula  repeated  to  her- 
self ; and  looked  and  looked  with  the  more  ve- 
hement sympathy. 


FAUSTULA 


229 


It  is  hard  to  gaze  fixedly  at  a statue’s  face 
and  not  at  last  imagine  that  one  sees  some  mo- 
tion in  some  feature:  and  to  Faustula  it  ap- 
peared that  the  angry  lips  curved  into  a more 
bitter  smile,  though  the  frowning  brows  never 
lifted. 

“We  hate  it:  HATE  it:  HATE  it,”  she 
whispered,  laying  her  own  lovely  little  hand 
on  the  Vestal’s  cold  foot. 

A very  soft  footstep  in  the  ambulatory  be- 
came barely  audible,  and  she  moved  on  quickly 
to  the  next  pedestal.  It  was  vacant,  in  the 
bright  moonlight  she  could  see  that  the  in- 
scription was  erased.  Partly  occupied  by 
this,  and  partly  listening  to  the  gentle  foot- 
steps, that  were  drawing  nearer,  from  the 
western  end  of  the  Atrium  where  was  the  Pe- 
nus  Vestas,  Faustula  stood  still,  her  slim  fig- 
ure, tall  but  childish,  plainly  visible  in  the 
moonlight. 

“Ah!  little  Faustula,  it  is  you,”  said  a gen- 
tle voice,  and  the  Vestal  Claudia  came  out 
into  the  courtyard  from  the  shadow  of  the  am- 
bulatory. 

She  was  all  in  white. 

“I  come,”  she  explained,  “from  the  Tem- 
ple. I have  been  on  duty.  Now  I am  re- 
lieved and  I am  going  to  my  supper.” 

But  she  did  not  hurry  away. 


230 


FAUSTULA 


“You  are  all  alone  ?”  she  said,  in  her  low, 
very  sweet  voice. 

“Yes.  I am  all  alone.” 

There  was  something  so  desolate  in  the 
child’s  simple  echo  of  her  own  words  that  the 
gentle  young  Vestal  felt  that  they  hurt  her. 

“What  are  you  doing  here  all  by  yourself?” 
she  asked  drawing  nearer. 

“Looking  at  the  statues.  Why  is  there 
none  on  this  pedestal?  Why  is  there  no 
name? 

“Because,”  Claudia  answered  reluctantly, 
with  a kind  of  dread,  “because  for  us  her 
name  is  blotted  out.” 

She  evidently  wanted  to  say  no  more;  but 
from  the  ambulatory,  without  the  sound  of 
any  footfall  at  all,  Volumina  appeared,  just 
as  Faustula  was  beginning  again. 

“Why ?” 

“What  are  you  two  doing  here?”  she  asked, 
not  severely,  but  with  her  chill  moderate  com- 
mon-sense. “That  child  ought  to  be  in  bed. 
I told  Plotina  to  attend  to  her.  ‘Why’ — 
what?” 

“Why  is  the  name  of  the  statue  that  was 
once  here  blotted  out?”  Faustula  asked 
calmly. 

“Because  she  misbehaved  and  disgraced  it: 
and,  what  matters  more,  disgraced  us. 


FAUSTULA  281 

Claudia,  go  and  find  Plotina  and  send  her 
here.” 

Claudia  obeyed  and  Faustula  was  left  alone 
with  the  Maxima.  They  eyed  each  other 
oddly ; but  Faustula  was  not  in  the  least 
afraid  of  her. 

“What  did  she  do?”  she  asked. 

“What  a Vestal  vows  not  to  do.  You 
should  not  ask  so  many  questions.” 

“You  need  not  answer  them.  Was  she 
punished?” 

“Certainly,  she  was  punished.”  Volu- 
mina  answered  this  question  too,  but  she  was, 
not  unnaturally,  exasperated,  and  perhaps  an- 
swered for  that  very  reason. 

“How?” 

“As  all  Vestals  are  who  disgrace  themselves 
and  us.  She  was  buried  alive.” 

The  reply  was  grim  enough  in  its  mere 
words,  and  it  lost  nothing  by  Volumina’s 
coldly  dispassionate  use  of  them.  “Now” 
she  seemed  to  say,  “since  you  insist,  you  can 
see  what  you  have  to  expect.” 

Faustula  was  not  cowed,  however,  and  she 
pointed  coolly  at  the  next  statue. 

“Was  that  one  buried  alive?”  she  demanded 
with  a smile  that  made  Volumina  want  to 
shake  her. 

“Certainly  not.” 


232 


FAUSTULA 


“She  looks  like  it.” 

“Looks  are  nothing.  I advise  you  not  to 
guide  yourself  by  them.” 

“No,  I do  not.”  And  Faustula  smiled 
again.  What  she  was  thinking  was  that  the 
oldest  of  the  ex- Vestals  looked  cunning  and 
was  probably  only  half-imbecile ; whereas  Vo- 
lumina  did  not  look  particularly  keen  and  was 
probably  as  sharp  as  a knife.  At  that  mo- 
ment the  Vestalis  Maxima  was  chiefly  wishing 
that  Plotina  would  be  quick. 

When  Faustula  smiled  she  was  seized  by  a 
quick  misgiving  that  the  young  patrician 
thought  lightly  of  her  as  of  a mere  plebe- 
ian. This  was  Volumina’s  most  assailable 
point. 

“You  do  not  speak  properly  to  me,”  she 
observed  coldly.  “There  is  a lack  of  defer- 
ence. I am  much  older  than  you.” 

“Oh  yes.  I know.” 

Faustula  did  not  seem  sufficiently  im- 
pressed; she  did  not  envy  the  Vestalis  Maxima 
her  thirty-four  years,  or  feel  sure  that  that 
lady  would  be  twenty-four  years  older  than 
herself  if  she  could  help  it. 

“Also  I have  much  power,”  Volumina  added 
significantly. 

“What  can  you  do?” 


FAUSTULA  233 

The  Chief  of  the  Vestals  almost  blushed 
with  irritation. 

“I  could  for  instance,”  she  replied,  “order 
you  a whipping.  What  should  you  think  if  I 
said  that  I should  do  so?” 

“I  should  think,”  Faustula  answered  with- 
out a moment’s  hesitation,  “that  you  would  do 
it.” 

There  was  not  the  least  impertinence  in  her 
quiet  gravity  as  she  said  this.  It  was  a per- 
fectly sincere  expression  of  opinion;  and  that 
opinion  did  not  displease  Volumina. 

“In  that  you  are  right,”  she  said.  “What 
I say  I shall  do  I do.  Here  is  Plotina.  She 
will  attend  to  you.” 

After  a word  or  two  of  direction  to  Plotina 
the  Vestalis  Maxima  moved  away.  She  would 
have  liked  to  order  Faustula  not  to  repeat 
their  conversation,  but  to  do  so  would  not  have 
been  dignified:  this  Faustula  understood,  and 
what  had  passed  between  them  she  kept  to  her- 
self. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


Plotina  enjoyed  having  some  thing  young 
and  pretty  to  make  much  of,  and,  in  spite 
of  her  harelip,  she  had  a motherly  heart. 
Faustula  liked  her  from  the  first,  and  was  even 
more  grateful  for  the  affection  than  for  her 
practical  care. 

During  the  first  ten  years  of  the  thirty  a 
Vestal  was  supposed  to  be  a novice  occupied 
in  learning  her  duties  and  especially  the  in- 
tricate ritual  connected  with  the  service  of  the 
goddess.  To  those  who  had  passed  the  next 
ten  were  entrusted  the  instruction  of  the  nov- 
ices. For  this  purpose  Faustula  was  put  in 
special  charge  of  Livia,  but  she  actually  learned 
more  from  Claudia,  who  for  a few  months 
after  her  initiation  was  a novice  herself. 

Livia  did  not  like  Faustula.  Their  families, 
though  both  patrician,  had  for  a long  time  been 
opposed  in  politics,  and  were  rivals  in  other 
ways.  Livia  belonged  to  the  family  of  Livius 
Drusus  Calidianus,  father  of  that  Livia  who 
was  first  the  wife  of  Tiberius  Claudius  Nero 
and  then  of  the  Emperor  Augustus.  She 
thought  very  little  of  the  F austuli,  and  did  not 
believe  in  their  ancestral  shepherd.  All  the 

2S4> 


FAUSTULA 


235 


same  a sister  of  hers,  long  ago,  had  been  willing 
to  marry  Tatius  Flavius  Faustulus,  Faustula’s 
father,  and  Faustulus  had  not  behaved  very 
well  in  the  matter.  At  all  events  he  had  mar- 
ried Accia  instead. 

Livia  considered  his  daughter  objectionable 
for  many  reasons.  She  advanced  no  rival  pre- 
tensions as  to  family,  but,  instead  of  frankly 
admitting  that  the  F austuli  were  comparatively 
inferior,  she  showed  that  she  thought  the  sub- 
ject tedious.  She  had  a deep  observance  in 
her  large  eyes,  and  Livia  suspected  that  she 
laughed  at  her. 

Of  that  she  was  weak  enough  to  complain 
to  Volumina. 

“That  could  hardly  be,”  the  Vestalis  Maxima 
observed  drily.  “If  there  were  anything  to 
laugh  at  it  would  be  different.” 

“She  is  obstinate.” 

“It  is  a common  fault.  But  not,  at  her  age, 
incurable.  With  women  advanced  in  life  it 
is  more  objectionable.” 

“I  cannot  see  in  her  the  least  respect  for  the 
Goddess.  In  a mere  child  that  is  shocking.” 

“In  a mere  child  it  must  proceed  from  mere 
ignorance.  Respect,  like  disrespect,  is  con- 
tagious. Let  her  absorb  from  you  a devout 
veneration  for  the  Goddess,  and  for  those  in 
highest  relation  to  Her.” 


236 


FAUSTULA 


Li  via  went  away  discomfited,  and  Volumina 
returned  to  her  interrupted  accounts  with  a 
satisfied  air.  It  was  much  more  agreeable  to 
her  that  Faustula’s  watchful  eyes  should  scan 
Livia’s  meagre  qualities  than  that  they  should 
be  fixed  upon  herself. 

“You  see  much  of  your  little  fellow-novice,” 
she  observed  afterwards  to  Claudia.  “That  is 
natural.  Do  you  find  her  stupid?” 

“Stupid?  Not  at  all!” 

“Obdurate?” 

“Oh  no.” 

“Capable  of  learning  her  duties?” 

“Very  capable.” 

“Willing?” 

Claudia  hesitated. 

“Perhaps  a little  indifferent,”  Volumina 
suggested.  “Children  are  not  always  by  tem- 
perament devout.”  (The  Vestalis  Maxima 
looked  as  dry  as  a nut.)  “The  thing  is  to  in- 
culcate devotion.  By  example.  The  child  is 
not  without  character.  According  to  our  reg- 
ulations a Vestal  should  devote  ten  years  to 
learning  her  duties;  ten  years  to  their  perfect 
practice;  and  the  next  ten  to  instructing  nov- 
ices. Among  some  I perceive  the  second  ten 
years  are  chiefly  occupied  in  an  attempt  to 
evade  duties  and  get  them  performed  by  others. 
On  that  period  you  will  shortly  enter : let  me 


FAUSTULA 


237 


advise  you  to  fulfil  your  functions  yourself, 
to  ask  no  one  to  take  your  turn,  and  rarely 
consent,  if  others  ask  you,  to  take  theirs.  I 
have  nothing  else  to  say.” 

So  Claudia  withdrew  understanding  that  the 
Vestalis  Maxima  relied  upon  her  to  make  up 
for  any  neglect  of  Livia’s  in  teaching  and 
training  Faustula.  Under  her  care  Faustula 
made  quite  satisfactory  progress.  If  her 
duties  had  only  interested  her,  there  would 
have  been  nothing  to  complain  of.  She  re- 
membered what  she  was  told,  and  her  quick 
faculty  of  observation  made  it  easy  for  her  to 
do  what  she  had  seen  done  by  someone  else. 
But  something  was  always  lacking,  and 
Claudia  could  hardly  help  knowing  what  it 
was. 

One  night,  not  very  late,  but  long  after  it 
was  dark,  for  it  was  now  winter,  Faustula  was 
sitting  beside  Claudia,  while  the  other  took  her 
turn  of  duty  in  attendance  on  the  Sacred  Fire. 

“What  would  happen,”  Faustula  asked  in 
an  odd  voice,  “if  you  let  it  go  out?” 

“I  should  be  flogged.” 

This  was  after  Claudia  had  completed  her 
novitiate,  and  no  other  Vestal  was  with  them. 

“By  whom?” 

Claudia  hesitated,  because  she  was  not  quite 
certain. 


238  FAUSTULA 

“According  to  rule  by  the  Pontifex  Max- 
imus. . . .” 

“But  for  a long  time  the  Emperors  have 
been  Pontifices  Maximi,  and  now  they  are 
Christians.” 

“Yes,  I know.  I suppose  one  of  the  Fla- 
mens  would  do  it.” 

Faustula’s  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  sacred 
flame  that  curved  up,  like  the  carved  flame  of 
a torch  on  a monument,  waving  a little  from 
side  to  side.  It  shone  on  her  fine  face,  almost 
always  grave,  though  often  reflecting  a sort 
of  flicker  of  inward  amusement.  Extremely 
unlike  her  father  in  all  essentials  of  character, 
a certain  whimsical  unaccountableness  had  de- 
scended to  her  from  him:  so  that  even  those 
most  used  to  her  could  never  tell  what  her 
next  humour  would  be. 

“What  would  it  matter,”  she  asked,  resting 
her  chin  in  her  hands  and  leaning  forward,  “if 
it  did  go  out?” 

“Oh!  Faustula!  After  it  has  burned  for 
a thousand  years!” 

“That  is  nonsense.  It  has  only  burned  since 
the  Calends  of  last  March.  It  is  blown  out 
every  year  and  lit  again.  Why  should  it  be 
worse  for  it  to  go  out  by  accident  than  to  be 
blown  out  on  purpose?” 


FAUSTULA 


239 


“Great  misfortunes  happen  to  the  State 
when  it  goes  out  by  negligence.” 

“I  don’t  see  why  misfortunes  should  happen 
to  the  whole  State  when  it  goes  out  because 
some  one  person  is  careless:  that  is  not  just.” 
“Perhaps  that  is  why  the  negligent  person 
is  flogged ; so  that  by  her  punishment  the  God- 
dess may  be  appeased,  and  the  innocent  not 
suffer.” 

“Her  being  flogged  does  not  make  them 
more  innocent,  whether  she  were  flogged  or  not 
it  was  not  their  f ault.  It  seems  to  me  the  gods 
are  not  just.” 

“Faustula,  you  are  wrong  to  talk  like  that. 
How  dare  we  fly  in  the  Divine  Faces?” 

“You  mean  that  it  makes  them  angry?  If 
they  are  angry  because  they  overhear  people 
telling  the  truth,  I don’t  mind.” 

“Faustula!  Faustula!  To  talk  like  that 
here  in  the  very  Temple  of  our  Goddess!” 
“She  is  not  my  goddess,  in  particular.  If 
she  knows  anything  she  knows  that  I hate  be- 
ing here.  If  she  punishes  me  for  saying  the 
truth,  then  I don’t  care  for  her  punishment. 
If  you  flog  a slave  who  has  done  no  harm,  it 
is  you  who  are  worthy  of  scorn;  the  slave  has 
the  best  of  it.  For  that  reason  I would  never 
treat  one  with  unjust  cruelty.  I should  not 


240 


FAUSTULA 


choose  that  she  should  be  better  than  myself. 
If  the  gods  are  ladies  and  gentlemen  they  must 
feel  that.” 

“The  gods  ladies  and  gentlemen!  Oh, 
Faustula.” 

“I  never  said  they  were.  I only  said  ‘if.’  ” 

As  she  made  this  remark  Faustula  looked 
with  a demure  simplicity  at  her  friend,  who 
shook  her  head  gravely. 

“Really  you  are  wicked,”  she  said. 

“Oh,  only  wicked!  I was  afraid  I was 
naughty.  I don’t  want  to  be  naughty  towards 
you : as  for  being  wicked  towards  the  goddess, 
I don’t  care  about  her  one  way  or  the  other — 
only  if  she  does  unjust  things  I can’t  help  say- 
ing they  are  unjust.  She  is  no  more  to  me 
than  the  rest  of  them.  And  there  are  too 
many  of  them.  Even  if  one  cared  about 
pleasing  them  it  would  not  be  easy:  what 
pleases  one  annoys  another:  they  do  not  seem 
to  get  on  very  well  together  if  all  we  read  is 
true.  So  I leave  them  alone.” 

“But,  Faustula,  you  should  not  be  indif- 
ferent to  Vesta;  you  are  her  priestess.” 

“Is  that  my  fault?” 

This  time  the  words  were  spoken  so  bitterly 
that  Claudia  would  have  been  shocked  had 
they  not  also  been  spoken  so  sadly. 

“Claudia,”  the  novice  went  on,  “you  know 


FAUSTULA 


241 


why  I am  here : or  you  can  guess  why — because 
my  family  do  not  want  me.  Why  did  old 
Plotina  become  a Vestal? — because  she  was 
ugly,  and  had  a harelip,  and  there  was  no 
money  for  her,  so  that  her  father  supposed  no 
one  would  marry  her.  Tacita  is  very  pretty, 
but  she  has  a club-foot — that  does  not  matter 
when  it  is  hidden  under  a purple  stola  and  she 
is  carried  about  in  a litter.  Old  Scribonia  is 
half-witted,  old  Valeria  has  a hump,  old  Mi- 
nucia  has  a face  like  a dog — did  any  of  us  come 
here  because  we  cared  a rotten  nut  for  Vesta?” 

“I  did,”  Claudia  answered  in  a very  low 
voice,  turning  her  sweet  and  lovely  eyes  full 
on  Faustula’s. 

“I  often  wondered,”  Faustula  said  in  a much 
gentler  tone,  “why  you  came.  I know  your 
father  loves  you.  I remember  that  day  when 
we  met  him,  as  we  were  coming  back  from 
fetching  the  Sacred  Water  from  Egeria’s 
Spring,  and  how  his  face  shone  with  delight 
the  moment  he  recognized  you.” 

“Yes.  No  one  could  love  his  daughter  bet- 
ter than  my  father;  and  no  one  deserves  to 
be  loved  better  than  he  does.  I have  no  sis- 
ters, and  no  brother,  so  all  his  love  is  mine, 
for  my  mother  died  five  years  after  I came 
here.  I was  very  happy  at  home.” 

If  she  had  meant  to  say  more  about  that  she 


242 


FAUSTULA 


changed  her  mind : perhaps  because  her  tender 
delicacy  made  her  realize  that  to  poor  Faus- 
tula  it  might  suggest  a cruel  contrast.  But 
Faustula  was  not  thinking  of  herself. 

“I  wish,”  she  said,  “you  would  tell  me  why 
you  became  a Vestal — it  was  your  own  idea?” 
“Oh  yes!  My  father  would  never  have 
thought  of  it;  he  did  not  want  to  consent.  I 
will  try  and  tell  you ; because  I think  I ought : 
but  perhaps  you  will  not  understand  and  think 
what  I say  sounds  arrogant.” 

“You  have  always,”  Faustula  observed  with 
a little  smile,  “given  me  the  impression  of  a 
very  arrogant  person.” 

For  a few  moments  Claudia  sat  silent,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  gently  swaying  flame.  She 
was  thinking  less  of  what  she  wanted  to  say 
than  of  Faustula ; how  many  varying  smiles  she 
had!  some  so  kindly,  and  some  so  sweet,  clear 
and  sunny  as  a young  child’s:  some  almost 
weird,  almost  old,  wayward,  whimsical,  shrewd, 
half -mocking  and  half -sad. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


Faustula  did  not  hurry  her,  but  sat  very 
still:  her  head  leant  forward  on  one  hand; 
through  the  outstretched  fingers  of  the  other 
she  idly  watched  the  Sacred  Fire.  On  the 
white  walls  it  cast  a wavering  light,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  two  girls  wavered  a little  too. 

“Faustula,  it  is  not  quite  easy  to  tell  you 
what  I want  to  say.  The  truth  often  sounds 
stupid,  because  it  falls  from  slow  lips.  . . 

Faustula  stopped  looking  through  her  fin- 
gers at  the  fire  and  laid  that  hand  gently  on 
Claudia’s  knee,  but  she  did  not  turn  her  head. 

“I  am  not  so  clever  as  you  are,”  Claudia 
went  on.  “I  can  only  tell  the  truth.  I am  not 
clever  at  all.  And  though  you  are  only  half 
my  age  I often  feel  almost  childish  in  com- 
parison. You  have  a genius  much  higher  than 
mine — indeed  I have  no  genius.  Your  nature, 
too,  is  noble.  It  is  not  any  small  or  petty 
twist  in  it  that  makes  you  seem  to  scoff,  but 
only  a bold  passion  for  justice,  that  will  not 
consent  to  injustice  anywhere — anywhere! 
Not  even  if  you  think  you  see  it  among  the 
very  gods.  I know  that.  But  it  seems  to  me 

that  this  high  nature  of  yours  has  been  twisted 

243" 


FAUSTULA 


244 

somehow:  I think  I know  how.  And  so — and 
so,  dear  Faustula,  I think  it  may  be  right  that 
I should  try  and  tell  you  why  I am  a Vestal.” 

She  laid  her  right  hand  on  Faustula’s  left, 
and  gently  pressed  it. 

“I  am  so  afraid,”  she  went  on,  “of  talking 
as  if  I had  become  a Vestal  in  some  better  way 
than  the  others.  . . 

“Of  course  you  have.  Anyone  can  see  that. 
Only  go  on,  and  explain.  I want  to  know.” 

Claudia  shook  her  head,  but  did  as  she  was 
bidden. 

“This  life  of  ours,”  she  said,  “is  so  short. 

• • • 

“Short!  Perhaps  eighty  more  years  of  it! 
Scribonia  is  nearly  ninety.  Short !” 

As  Faustula  said  this  she  drew  her  hand 
away  and  lifted  her  face  from  the  other.  She 
seemed  to  point  around,  and  her  head  turned 
from  side  to  side  as  one  may  see  a caged  wild 
creature  turn  its  head  behind  the  bars  of  its 
cage. 

Claudia  found  it  even  harder  to  go  on  than 
it  had  been  to  begin.  She  did  not  try  to  say 
any  more  at  once. 

“What  have  they  done!”  she  cried  in  her 
heart.  “What  have  they  done  who  forced  her 
here?” 

“Claudia,  is  it  true,”  Faustula  whispered 


FAUSTULA 


245 


with  a terrible  fierce  eagerness,  “that  for  some 
things  they  bury  us  alive?” 

“Yes.” 

“In  the  ground?  How  long  does  it  last? 
It  cannot  last  many  days:  I would  rather  do 
whatever  it  is  and  be  buried  so,  and  get  it  over. 
I would  rather  be  buried  alone,  and  be  dead  in 
a week — I could  bear  anything  for  a week — 
than  be  buried  alive  for  four-score  years.  In 
a week  I could  not  grow  imbecile  like  Scri- 
bonia,  mabgnant  like  Livia;  no  one  in  a week 
could  become  a mere  stomach  and  mouth  like 
Marcia  in  a week  . . . Short!  This  life 
short!  No  one  would  see  me  die  in  that  live 
tomb.  Here  I shall  see  myself  rotting  alive 
till  Death  himself  turns  his  face  away  and  will 
not  look.  . . .” 

If  this  had  been  cried  aloud  in  a virago’s 
shrill  scream  it  would  not  have  sounded  half 
so  dreadful:  but  Faustula’s  voice  could  not  be 
shrill,  and  was  always  low  and  musical.  No 
one  could  have  heard  her  now  at  half  a dozen 
paces’  distance.  And  the  dry  bitterness  of  her 
words  was  unsoftened  by  any  tear. 

For  many  minutes  Claudia  could  not  speak, 
then  she  asked  gently : 

“Faustula,  did  no  one  ask  you  if  you  con- 
sented to  come  here?” 

“No  one.” 


246 


FAUSTULA 


Claudia  knew  well  that  no  one  had  consulted 
the  wishes  of  half  the  others:  but  none  of  the 
others  had  a nature  like  Faustula’s. 

“Once,  long  ago,”  Faustula  said  presently, 
“when  I was  a little  thing  I was  unhappy,  and 
I was  going  to  kill  myself.  Then  someone 
who  loved  me  came  and  stopped  me ; and  I was 
angry  with  him,  and  I loved  him  for  stopping 
me.  It  seemed  to  me  then  that  he  had  pulled 
me  back  from  a great  blackness  and,  oh  the 
sun  was  sweet,  and  the  smell  of  the  live  earth, 
and  flowers ; and  his  kind  arms  were  sweet  that 
had  snatched  me  back.  But  this  long  black- 
ness is  worse,  for  I am  alive  in  it,  and  then  I 
should  have  been  only  dead.” 

Now  it  was  Claudia  who  leant  her  face  into 
her  hands,  half  covering  it.  Faustula’s  voice 
was  no  longer  hard  and  bitter,  but  there  was  a 
cry  in  it  like  a wound.  She  did  not  know  her 
own  meaning  as  Claudia  knew  it:  she  had 
never  before  alluded  to  anyone  who  loved  her. 
Claudia  had  supposed  that  in  all  her  pitiful 
short  life  there  had  shone  not  one  ray  of  love. 

How  could  a girl  only  ten  years  old  under- 
stand as  Claudia  understood  for  her?  Be- 
tween Yesta  and  Faustula  there  had  stood,  as 
the  elder  girl  had  thought,  only  the  barrier  of 
indifference,  the  opposition  of  a nature  whose 
almost  fierce  sincerity  made  it  hard  for  her  to 


FAUSTULA 


247 


acquire  a vocation  to  which  nothing  in  her  char- 
acter disposed  her.  She  knew  that  with  the 
other  Vestals  their  calling  of  priestess  in 
Vesta’s  shrine  was  only  a habit  and  a slow 
growth  of  half -mechanical  daily  practice:  but 
that  such  a mechanical  vocation  would  be 
much  more  difficult  for  a nature  like  Faus- 
tula’s  that  would  feign  nothing,  ape  nothing, 
take  nothing  for  granted  because  it  happened 
to  be  convenient.  Faustula  would  never  talk 
herself  into  becoming  a priestess,  never  imag- 
ine herself  devoted  to  Vesta,  because  it  was 
the  best  thing  in  the  circumstances  she  could 
imagine. 

Claudia  shrank  when  the  novice  spoke 
roughly,  with  a hardy  criticism,  of  the  gods: 
but  she  had  understood  that  too,  and  did  not 
condemn  it  as  mere  insolent  irreverence.  It 
did  not  seem  to  her  that  Faustula’s  nature 
lacked  reverence,  but  she  divined  somehow  that 
the  reverence  in  her  lay  unawakened,  in  abey- 
ance, and  that  meanwhile,  till  it  had  perceived 
an  object  worthy  of  itself,  it  would  not  pro- 
fess itself  to  what  failed  to  compel  it.  In  any 
case  she  felt,  by  a sure  instinct,  that  Faustula 
had  not  the  character  that  makes  a sincere 
priestess:  and  she  had  already  trembled  to 
think  how  hard  it  would  be  for  such  a nature 
to  play  a part  that  could  not  be  sincere. 


248 


FAUSTULA 


Now  she  saw  much  more.  Between  Vesta 
and  Faustula  was  not  only  the  thick  barrier 
of  a natural  indifference;  there  stood  a human 
figure.  It  only  partly  comforted  her  to  think 
that  Faustula  was  but  a child  of  ten:  she 
would  not  always  be  a child  and  it  was  not  safe, 
with  such  a character,  to  count  on  forgetful- 
ness. 

“Was  this  long  ago!”  she  asked  at  last. 
“Yes.  Long  ago.  When  I was  only  six 
years  old.” 

Claudia  could  see  how  present  it  all  was  to 
Faustula  still. 

“And  he?  How  old  was  he?” 

“Oh,  much  older  than  me.  A big  boy  of 
twelve.  He  is  in  the  Army  now:  far  away 
from  Rome,  or  he  would  have  come  to  say  fare- 
well before  I came  here.  All  his  family  were 
kind  to  me ; he  is  Fabian  Acilius  Glabrio.” 

“A  Christian?” 

“Oh,  of  course.  They  are  all  Christians. 
They  were  all  good  to  me.” 

“Many  of  them,  I know,  are  very  good.” 
“Yes.  Better  than  our  people.” 

Claudia  did  not  like  to  hear  her  say  this;  it 
sounded  dangerous,  and  disloyal. 

She  sighed,  and  rose  to  tend  the  Sacred  Fire, 
without  making  any  comment.  Faustula 


FAUSTULA 


249 


watched  her,  half  thinking  of  her,  and  half  of 
what  she  had  herself  been  saying. 

It  did  not  occur  to  either  of  them  in  another 
ten  years  Claudia  would  be  Vestalis  Maxima, 
and  certainly  it  did  not  occur  to  them  that 
either  of  them  would  ever  be  a Christian. 

Opposite  a place  where  the  two  girls  had 
been  sitting,  a huge,  long  and  splendid  piece 
of  embroidery  hung  upon  the  wall.  It  was 
not  Roman,  but  Greek,  and  had  been  presented 
to  the  goddess  by  a Roman  general  returning 
from  the  east.  It  concealed  the  door  of  the 
cella  and  was  perhaps  intended  to  ward  off 
draughts  from  the  Sacred  Flame.  The  fig- 
ures were  of  life-size,  and  there  were  three  of 
them,  three  girls,  grave-faced  and  solemn. 
The  central  figure  of  the  group  was  seated,  and 
F austula  could  see  her  best  of  the  three.  One 
was  hidden  by  Claudia  as  she  bent  over  the 
altar,  one  was  faded,  for  the  embroidery  was 
very  old.  On  that  of  the  seated,  central  fig- 
ure, the  light  from  the  altar  shone  and  quav- 
ered, so  that  the  hands  seemed  to  move.  Faus- 
tula’s  eyes  fell  on  her,  and  she  watched  her  idly 
at  her  spinning;  she  knew  that  those  pictured 
women  were  the  three  Fates.  Half  inatten- 
tively she  watched  Clotho  spinning,  spinning 
the  web  of  human  destiny.  When  Claudia  sat 


250 


FAUSTULA 


down  again  she  could  see  Atropos  too.  Clotho 
was  shown  intent  upon  her  work,  absorbed  in 
it,  as  if  she  thought  herself  alone.  Atropos 
bent  over  her,  with  a mirthlessness  half  scorn- 
ful, ready,  when  the  humour  seized  her,  to 
stoop  and  sever  with  her  scissors  the  thread 
that  Clotho  drew  from  out  her  spindle. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


This  was  on  a night  of  winter,  with  a still 
cold  air,  black  and  bitter.  When  it  was 
already  late  Faustulus  came  out  of  his  house 
and  turned  towards  the  Circus  Maximus  with- 
out much  heeding  which  direction  he  took.  It 
was  not  a night  to  tempt  him  out,  but  he  could 
not  stay  indoors:  he  wanted  to  get  away  from 
Tullia  and  her  lamentations,  for  lamentations 
were  always  intolerable  to  him.  His  youngest 
child,  his  son  and  Tullia’s,  was  dead,  and  the 
boy’s  mother  was  as  noisy  in  her  grief  as  a 
peasant.  Cold  enough  in  general,  and  too 
fashionable,  one  would  have  said,  for  much 
emotion,  the  loss  of  her  sickly  child  had  over- 
set all  her  vapid,  smooth  artificialism.  She 
had  been  disgusted  that  her  son  was  ugly, 
but  she  blamed  his  father  for  that,  and,  such 
as  he  was,  he  was  the  only  child  she  had,  or 
was  likely  to  have.  Anything  that  was  her 
own  Tullia  was  eager  to  keep,  and  apt  to  value 
tenaciously  simply  because  it  was  her  own. 

A horrible  suspicion  assailed  her  that  the 
child  had  ched  because  Faustula  had  been  sent 
away.  Not  that  she  perceived  in  such  a pun- 
ishment of  herself  a visitation  of  Divine  Justice 

251 


252 


FAUSTULA 


which  her  own  callous  and  cruel  injustice  had 
incited,  but  because  she  thought  some  one  of 
the  many  gods,  capricious  and  vengeful,  might 
have  chosen  to  take  Faustula  under  his  or  her 
special  protection,  and  was  therefore  offended. 

Of  this  suspicion  she  would  say  nothing  to 
her  husband,  but  she  tormented  him  by  her 
passionate  outcries  against  her  luckless  fate. 
Had  he  not  four  children,  and  only  one  of 
them  hers?  If  one  should  be  taken  why  should 
it  be  her  one? 

He  bore  it,  more  patiently  than  many  a bet- 
ter man  might  have  done,  for  hours;  and  then 
escaped  at  last.  To  him,  personally,  the  death 
of  this  feeble,  puling  baby  was  no  great  sor- 
row. His  one  desire  was  to  get  away  for  a 
time  from  the  spectacle  of  Tullia’s  loud  grief. 
To  those  who  persistently  live  on  the  surface 
of  their  lives,  such  realities  are  none  the  less 
jarring  and  repulsive  because  they  are  real. 
He  did  not  in  the  least  accuse  his  wife  of  af- 
fectation or  extravagance  in  her  wailings,  but 
they  almost  shocked  him.  She  sometimes 
screamed,  literally  screamed,  like  a slave. 

He  came  out  of  his  house  almost  furtively, 
as  if  in  dread  of  being  fetched  back.  Once 
safely  away  from  it  he  fell  into  his  usual  easy 
saunter,  still,  however,  walking  without  any 
special  intention.  He  wanted  to  stay  out  as 


FAUSTULA 


253 


long  as  possible,  in  the  hope  of  finding  Tullia 
gone  to  bed  on  his  return. 

Passing  the  entrance  of  the  Circus  Maximus 
he  kept  along  the  straight  road  leading  to  the 
Aventine,  till  he  came  to  the  point  where  the 
Clivus  Publicius  was  crossed  by  the  Vicus  Pis- 
cinas Publicae,  into  which  he  turned,  downhill 
again,  so  as  to  pass  the  other,  rounded,  end  of 
the  vast  circus  which  the  Emperor  Constantine 
the  Great  had  restored. 

As  he  walked  it  was  natural  that  his  thoughts 
should  go  back  to  the  night  of  Faustula’s  birth, 
when  he  had  come  home,  down  the  Clivus 
Publicius  from  the  Aventine,  to  find  that  Accia 
was  dead.  He  remembered  how  Sabina  told 
him:  and  now  she  also  was  dead:  and  how 
Clodia  had  come  to  him  in  his  room,  with  her 
dead  baby  in  her  arms,  to  beg  that  she  might 
nurse  Faustula.  And  Clodia  was  dead  too. 
He  called  to  mind  how  he  had  gone  on  his 
travels,  and  how,  when  they  were  over,  he  had 
been  out  to  Olibanum  and  had  found  Faus- 
tula beautiful  and  fascinating  beyond  any 
hopes  he  had  had.  He  remembered  Sabina’s 
taking  him  to  the  Villa  Acilia  at  Civitella;  he 
recollected  Melania  perfectly,  her  pleasant, 
cheerful  face  and  friendly  voice.  Acilia,  too, 
and  the  two  boys,  noble  and  handsome,  so  un- 
like his  own  ungainly,  unpleasant  son.  And 


254 


FAUSTULA 


now  their  mother  was  dead,  and  Acilia  . . . 
when  he  was  quite  young  his  own  mother  had 
died,  and  he  remembered  well  how  it  had  filled 
him  with  a sort  of  personal  dread  and  chill,  as 
if  his  own  turn  must  come  the  sooner.  All 
these  other  deaths  had  no  such  effect,  though 
now  he  was  more  than  a quarter  of  a century 
older:  he  only  felt  that  they  were  gone  and  he 
was  not:  almost  as  if  his  survival  gave  him  a 
more  established  claim  on  life.  . . . 

Leaving  the  Septizonium  on  his  left,  he  soon 
passed  the  little  street  or  road  leading  up  to 
the  House  of  Pammachius,  the  Clivus  Scauri, 
and  so  under  one  of  the  arches  of  the  Claudian 
Aqueduct  towards  the  Coliseum.  Its  huge 
bulk  was  one  great  blackness,  for  the  moon  was 
hidden  behind  clouds  that  threatened  snow. 

Passing  through  the  Arch  of  Constantine, 
he  turned  up  the  hill  towards  the  left,  towards 
that  of  Titus,  but  he  walked  slowly,  partly  on 
purpose  to  let  the  time  slip  by,  and  partly  out 
of  his  sauntering  habit ; for  a man  who  seldom 
walks  with  any  object  or  purpose  is  sure  to 
have  that  habit. 

Just  beyond  the  Arch  of  Titus  he  stood  still 
a moment  or  two  to  make  up  his  mind  whether 
to  go  down  into  the  Forum  by  the  Via  Sacra, 
or  keep  to  the  left  and  pass  between  the  Atrium 
Vestse  and  the  Palace  of  Caligula  by  the  Nova 


FAUSTULA 


255 


Via.  The  latter  road  was  narrow  and  dark, 
and  had  not  the  best  reputation  at  night. 
Without  much  attention  to  that,  however,  he 
turned  a little  to  the  right  and  strolled  down 
the  incline  into  the  Forum.  Someone  on  a 
horse  was  coming  up  by  the  road  he  had  just 
passed,  from  the  direction  of  the  Meta  Sudans; 
he  could  hear  the  ringing  of  the  horse’s 
metalled  feet  upon  the  pavement,  for  it  was 
late  and  quiet,  and  the  air  was  clear  for 
frost. 

Presently,  when  he  came  in  sight  of  the 
Atrium  Vestas,  he  stood  still  again,  and  drew 
his  cloak  closer,  for  a sharp  wind  had  crept  up 
and  it  was  colder.  There  had  come  a little 
ragged  gap  in  the  clouds,  and  the  moon  swam 
into  it,  so  that  things,  invisible  before,  showed 
out  now,  white  and  wan.  The  tall  windowless 
wall  of  the  Atrium  Vestas  stood  up  like  a ghost, 
and,  behind  it,  towered  the  great  bulk  of  the 
deserted  Imperial  palace. 

Faustulus  stood  looking  at  the  Atrium,  and 
listening  idly  to  the  sound  of  the  horse’s  feet. 
He  heard  the  hollow,  echoing  noise  they  made 
as  the  rider  came  through  the  Arch  of  Titus. 
But  he  was  not  thinking  of  the  horse  or  its 
rider:  his  thoughts  were  with  Faustula.  Was 
she  asleep,  or  taking  her  turn  of  watching  with 
some  older  Vestal  by  the  Sacred  Fire? 


256 


FAUSTULA 


The  rider  was  close  behind  him  now,  and  he 
half  turned  to  look  at  him:  a very  young  man, 
a mere  lad,  but  an  officer,  riding  a fine  horse. 
Faustulus  had  always  liked  beautiful  horses, 
and  he  looked  more  attentively,  while  the  moon 
shone  full  upon  his  own  slightly  raised  face. 
The  young  officer,  who  was  only  walking  his 
horse,  pulled  up  and  cried  out  in  a pleased 
voice : 

“Faustule!  Ah!  I see  you  do  not  remem- 
ber me:  but  I remember  you.  I am  Fabian 
Acilius  Glabrio.” 

Fabian  dismounted  at  once,  and  they  greeted 
each  other  cordially. 

“We  only  met  once,  and  it  is  nearly  five 
years  ago.  It  is  very  nice  of  you  to  remember 
me  at  once,”  Faustulus  exclaimed.  He  was 
pleased  to  think  that  those  years  had  not  al- 
tered his  appearance.  “How  oddly  things 
happen,”  he  went  on,  “only  half  an  hour  ago  I 
was  thinking  of  you.  But  I thought  you  were 
far  away.” 

“So  I was  till  two  days  ago.  Now  I am 
quartered  here:  I have  been  visiting  guards.” 

“You  have  become  a man!”  declared  Faus- 
tulus, who  knew  that  his  friend  was  at  the  age 
when  it  is  a compliment  to  be  supposed  older 
than  one  is. 

“Not  quite,”  laughed  Fabian.  “Only  a big 


FAUSTULA  257 

boy.  But  I shall  be  a man  presently,  if  you’ll 
be  so  good  as  to  have  a little  patience.” 

“ ‘Patience,’  my  dear  Fabian.  Ah,  do  not  be 
in  a hurry.  Fools  can  grow  old,  but  the  wisest 
of  us  can’t  grow  young  again.  I wish  I were — 
what  is  it?  Twenty?” 

“Twenty!  I am  barely  seventeen,  not  quite 
seventeen.” 

Fabian  seemed  honestly  glad  to  see  him : and 
Faustulus  was  pleased,  almost  grateful.  He 
had  reached  the  age  when  people,  especially 
young  people,  regard  one’s  absence  or  presence 
with  civil  indiff  erence. 

“Ah ! How  well  I remember  the  day  we  met 
before,”  he  said.  “And  I liked  you  best  be- 
cause you  liked  me  best.  Christopher  was  not 
sure  about  me.  Do  you  remember  ?” 

Fabian  remembered  very  well;  and  he  knew 
also  that  his  brother  had  pretty  correct  instincts. 
It  was  true  that  he  himself  had  liked  Faustulus 
best:  a pleasant  manner,  an  attractive  face  had 
always  been  enough  to  win  his  quick  friendli- 
ness. 

His  own  feeling  towards  Faustula’s  father 
had  often  puzzled  him:  as  her  father  he  disap- 
proved of  him  and  had  been  angry  with  him. 
Yet  he  liked  him,  and  chiefly  because  he  was 
her  father:  and  liked  him  for  himself  also,  half 
against  his  own  judgment. 


258 


faustula 


“Of  course  I remember,”  Fabian  replied 
cheerfully.  “You  told  us  you  had  been 
naughty.” 

“So  I had.  I always  am.  Christopher  is 
never  naughty.” 

“No,  he  isn’t.” 

“But  you  are  sometimes.  That  was  why  you 
took  a fancy  to  me.” 

They  both  laughed. 

“Oh,  but  I am  improving,”  Fabian  protested. 
“That  was  why  you  did  not  know  me,  though 
I knew  you.” 

“That  sounds  rather  rude,”  observed  Faus- 
tulus,  not  at  all  off  ended. 

“Yes,  it  does.  I see  that  now  when  it  is  too 
late.  Let  us  change  the  subject.  How  is 
Faustula?” 

In  a moment  Fabian  perceived,  but  without 
understanding,  a change  in  his  friend’s  manner. 
He  blushed,  and  thought  that  perhaps  his  in- 
quiry had  sounded  too  familiar. 

“I  beg  your  pardon,”  he  said:  “but  you  know 
we  saw  a good  deal  of  her.  She  and  Tatius 
stayed  with  us,  and  my  dear  mother  was  very 
fond  of  her.” 

“I  remember  very  well,”  Faustulus  replied, 
recalling  that  that  visit  had  cost  the  two  boys 
their  mother’s  life.  “That  can  never  be  for- 
gotten. Faustula  is  quite  well.” 


FAUSTULA 


259 


“Now  Sabina  is  dead,  she  lives  with  you  here 
in  Rome,  I suppose.” 

Fabian  was  holding  his  horse  by  the  bridle 
and  smoothing  his  glossy  neck.  He  was  not 
looking  at  Faustulus,  but  every  inflection  of  his 
voice  he  noticed. 

“She  is  here  in  Rome;  but  she  does  not  live 
with  me.  She  is  in  there.” 

In  all  his  life  Faustulus  had  never  found  it 
so  hard  to  say  anything  as  he  found  the  speak- 
ing of  those  few  words.  It  was  his  turn  to 
blush  now,  and  he  turned  his  face  away  as  he 
pointed  towards  the  House  of  the  Vestals. 

“In  where?” 

As  he  asked  this,  abruptly,  without  pausing 
to  consider  the  sharp,  inquisitorial  tone  of  his 
question,  Fabian  turned  hastily  to  look  whither 
Faustulus  was  pointing. 

The  tall  blind  wall  of  the  Atrium,  ghostly 
in  the  moonlight,  looked  like  a huge  exag- 
gerated tomb. 

“In  there.  In  the  house  of  the  Vestal 
Virgins,”  Faustulus  answered  in  a hoarse 
whisper. 

Fabian  could  not  speak;  neither  could  he 
bear  to  look  Fa,ustula’s  father  in  the  face. 
Faustulus  had  been  ashamed  for  months,  but 
he  had  never  felt  so  deadly  a sense  of  shame 
till  then. 


260 


FAUSTULA 


“What  have  I done?”  he  gasped,  but  ut- 
tering no  audible  word.  What  he  was  thank- 
ful for  was  that  Fabian  did  not  look  him  in 
the  face.  Furtively  he  tried  to  scan  the 
youth’s  face  as  he  stood  staring  at  the  Atrium 
Vestas. 

Fabian  knew  Faustula  better  than  anyone 
else  had  ever  known  her:  far  better  than  her 
father.  And  he  loved  her  far  better.  That 
was  why  he  knew.  He  never  for  an  instant 
imagined  she  had  become  a Vestal  by  any 
choice  of  her  own.  He  remembered,  of 
course,  that  her  father  had  married  again: 
that  was  an  old  story.  At  the  time  it  had  not 
seemed  to  make  any  difference  to  Faustula 
one  way  or  the  other.  But  now  Sabina  was 
dead — and  Fabian  could  guess  the  rest. 

“She  will  go  mad  in  there,”  he  thought. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


Fabian  never  saw  Faustula  as  a Vestal  till 
more  than  four  years  after  that  night. 
As  it  happened  he  only  stayed  in  Rome  a few 
weeks.  Athanaric  and  his  Goths  were  giving 
trouble  in  Mcesia,  and  both  the  Acilii  were  sent 
on  service  against  them.  Fabian  could  only 
feel  it  a relief  to  be  away  from  Rome,  where 
the  thought  of  Faustula,  an  unwilling  captive 
as  she  seemed  to  him,  was  perpetually  with 
him,  and  where  he  could  do  nothing  for  her. 

Yet,  when  he  could  return  he  did  so  at  the 
first  possible  moment,  as  though  unable  to 
keep  away.  He  got  back  at  the  beginning  of 
February  and  in  less  than  a fortnight  he  saw 
her. 

One  day,  less  than  a week  before  the  Luper- 
calia,  the  Vestalis  Maxima  met  Tullia,  who 
complained  to  her  that  Faustula  never  visited 
the  House  of  the  Faustuli. 

“It  has  a bad  appearance,”  she  said  with  an 
aggrieved  air,  “as  if  she  did  not  care  to  see 
us.” 

It  seemed  to  Volumina  quite  probable  that 
Faustula  did  not  care  to  see  her  stepmother, 

and  she  saw  no  special  reason  why  she  should. 

261 


262 


FAUSTULA 


She  did  not  admire  Tullia  herself,  and  thought 
her  a mere  epitome  of  patrician  pride  and  ar- 
rogance. 

“I  do  not  know,”  she  observed  coolly,  “that 
I care  for  the  very  young  Vestals,  in  their 
noviceship,  going  about  in  the  city  much. 

• • • 

“It  is  not  going  about  to  visit  her  father 
and  his  family.  And  we  live  so  near.” 

“I  will  see  that  she  comes,”  Volumina  an- 
swered, and  immediately  turned  away  as  if  she 
had  had  enough  of  the  subject. 

The  day  before  the  feast  of  the  Lupercalia 
began  she  told  Faustula  that  on  her  way  to 
the  Lupercal,  or  returning  from  it,  she  had 
better  pay  a visit  at  her  father’s  house. 

“You  will  go  in  state,”  she  remarked  with 
a grim  smile.  “Your  stepmother  complains 
you  do  not  go  there,  and  I would  like  you  to 
make  the  visit  with  all  ceremony.  Your  step- 
mother is  a fine  lady,  but  I choose  she  should 
remember  that  a Vestal  is  finer  than  she.” 

Faustula  was  amused,  and,  as  she  would 
have  to  go  “in  state”  to  the  Lupercal,  it  would 
make  no  dilf erence,  if  the  visit  had  to  be  made 
at  all.  And  she  preferred  going  on  a day 
when  there  would  be  many  visitors,  as  she  had 
no  desire  to  meet  Tullia  alone. 

As  it  happened  Fabian  was  walking  from 


FAUSTULA 


263 


the  Forum  Boarium  towards  the  Forum  Ro- 
manum,  and  overtook  Faustulus,  who  had 
himself  been  to  the  Lupercal,  close  by  the 
House  of  the  Faustuli.  They  had  not  met 
since  that  night  when  Fabian  heard  from  him 
that  Faustula  had  become  a Vestal  Virgin. 

As  Faustulus  pressed  him  to  come  in  rather 
warmly,  he  could  hardly  refuse,  and  they  en- 
tered the  house  together.  He  was  presented 
to  Tullia  whom  he  found  pretty  much  what 
he  expected,  a handsome,  prosperous  woman 
of  the  world,  with  fine  eyes  that  looked  as  if 
they  could  scowl,  but  were  all  smiles  at  pres- 
ent. 

“And  here,”  said  Faustulus  carelessly,  “is 
my  daughter ” 

Fabian  could  scarcely  help  starting.  The 
girl  was  tall,  and  held  herself  proudly,  as  if 
a little  over-conscious  of  her  rank  and  of  her 
beauty.  She  had  a certain  likeness  to  her 
father,  but  had  a less  amiable  air  and  her  eyes 
were  too  keen  and  hard. 

“And  here  is  my  daughter  Flavia,”  said 
Faustulus,  with  scarcely  any  pause  before  her 
name;  but  there  had  been  the  briefest  possible 
pause ; and  Flavia  had  perceived  it. 

“The  wrong  daughter,”  she  said  with  a smile 
that  was  too  self-possessed. 

Faustulus  was  annoyed  because  her  remark 


264  FAUSTULA 

was  ill-bred  and  turned  away  to  speak  to  an- 
other guest. 

Fabian  bowed  low,  and  Flavia  immediately 
began  talking  to  him.  He  could  not  help  com- 
paring her  with  Faustula.  She  was  not  beau- 
tiful, but  handsome,  and  some  people  won- 
dered why  at  nearly  twenty  years  of  age  she 
was  unmarried,  for  it  was  known  that  she  was 
to  inherit  the  wealth  of  her  aunt  and  adoptive 
mother,  Domitia.  In  Rome  such  things  are 
always  accounted  for,  and  it  was  whispered 
by  the  ill-natured  that  the  girl  had  the  Evil 
Eye.  The  whispers  had  been  kindly  repeated 
to  Domitia  who  had,  on  a day  when  they  were 
quarrelling,  twitted  Flavia  with  the  report  and 
bade  her  be  careful. 

“If  anything  bad  happens  to  me,”  she  said 
maliciously,  “it  will  be  put  down  to  your  Evil 
Eye.” 

The  report  made  Flavia  furious.  She  knew 
well  how  serious  it  was;  and  it  also  made  her 
morbidly  suspicious,  so  that  if  anyone  talking 
to  her,  or  even  standing  near  her,  happened 
to  put  a hand  behind  his  back  she  instantly 
jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  “making 
horns”  with  the  first  and  fourth  fingers,  while 
folding  down  the  second  and  third  into  his 
palm. 

As  it  chanced,  Fabian,  while  she  was  talking 


FAUSTULA 


265 

rapidly  to  him,  did  lay  his  right  hand  behind 
him  on  his  hip  for  a moment  or  two,  and  Flavia 
noticed  it  at  once.  His  expression  was  rather 
absent-minded,  for  he  was  thinking  more  of 
Faustula  than  of  her  sister’s  quick,  satirical  re- 
marks. A bitterly  angry  gleam  flashed  into 
her  fine  blue-grey  eyes,  but  she  went  on  speak- 
ing without  the  least  break.  All  the  same  she 
never  forgot  and  never  forgave. 

Just  beyond  Fabian,  on  his  right,  stood  a 
young  man,  with  a good-looking,  slightly  weak 
face,  who  had  for  some  time  been  showing 
marked  signs  of  being  fascinated  by  Flavia’s 
charms.  He  thought  her  clever,  and  was  sure 
she  was  handsome,  her  birth  was  equal  to  his 
own,  and  he  had  no  objection  to  her  excellent 
prospects  as  Domitia’s  heiress.  At  this  mo- 
ment he  was  waiting  to  take  Fabian’s  place, 
and  Flavia  was  quite  content  to  make  him  wait 
a little. 

The  tablinium  of  the  palace  of  the  Faustuli 
was  large,  but  not  large  enough  for  all  the 
company,  and  this  little  group  of  three  persons 
was  standing  just  outside  the  door.  They 
could  see  across  the  atrium  to  the  entrance 
from  the  street. 

Presently  there  was  a sort  of  movement  and 
slight  fuss  among  those  who  were  near  it,  and 
Flavia’s  young  gentleman  craned  his  long  neck 


266 


FAUSTULA 


forward  to  look.  Tullia  was  only  just  within 
the  doorway  of  the  tablinium  and  could  see 
too.  A slave  came  up  to  Faustulus  and  made 
some  announcement  to  him  in  a low  voice, 
whereupon  he  immediately  walked  quickly 
across  the  atrium  as  though  to  welcome  a guest 
of  distinction. 

A litter  was  carried  up  the  steps  leading 
from  the  street,  and  in  the  entrance  were  seen 
lictors  in  gala  dress  carrying  the  fasces. 

Flavia’s  admirer,  whose  name  was  Lucilius, 
was  quite  excited. 

“By  greatest  Jove — a Vestal!”  he  exclaimed, 
making  his  neck  longer  than  ever. 

Faustulus  was  helping  the  lady  in  the  litter 
to  alight,  and  when  he  had  done  so  they  em- 
braced, and  he  led  her  forward. 

“Oh,  it  is  only  my  sister,”  Flavia  observed, 
turping  an  amused  glance  towards  Tullia  to 
see  how  that  important  lady  wqs  enjoying  it. 
She  and  her  stepmother  were  extremely  civil 
to  each  other,  but  there  was,  as  people  say,  no 
love  lost  between  them.  Tullia  thought  too 
much  of  herself,  and  so  did  Flavia. 

“She  ought  to  go  forward  and  receive  her,” 
Flavia  observed.  “A  Vestal  takes  precedence 
of  every  other  woman.” 

Tullia  knew  that  very  well:  forms  and  etb 
quette  were  her  strong  point.  She  moved  for- 


FAUSTULA 


267 


ward  half  across  the  atrium,  and  in  the  middle 
she  and  Faustula  met.  Tullia  was  inwardly 
annoyed,  she  had  not  in  the  least  desired  a state 
visit;  but  she  smiled  as  hard  as  she  could,  and 
Faustula  smiled  too.  She  was  extremely  gra- 
cious and  everyone  was  amused,  understanding 
the  whole  thing  perfectly. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  bril- 
liantly light ; the  small  group  in  the  middle  of 
the  atrium  was  very  visible. 

Tullia  and  Faustula  embraced,  and  then  the 
girl  drew  back  half  a pace,  still  talking  to  her 
stepmother  without  looking  round. 

Faustula  was  now  nearly  fifteen  and  that  is 
equal  to  seventeen  in  a northern  girl.  She  was 
as  tall  as  Flavia,  and  a hundred  times  more 
beautiful.  Her  dress  was  now  long  familiar, 
and  she  wore  it  like  a young  princess:  the  im- 
perial purple  became  her  well. 

“I  must  go  and  greet  her  too,”  Flavia  said, 
and  went  quickly  to  join  the  others  as  they 
moved  forward  towards  the  tablinium.  The 
sisters  met  just  as  Faustula  stepped  from  the 
peristylium  into  the  broad  colonnade  that  ran 
in  front  of  the  rooms,  where  a beautiful  and 
massive  bronze  lamp  was  hung  between  two 
of  the  pillars.  Of  course  it  was  as  yet  un- 
lighted. 

“Salve,  Faustula!”  said  Flavia,  and  kissed 


268  FAUSTULA 

her  lightly,  first  on  one  cheek,  then  on  the 
other. 

Faustula  smiled  again,  and  was  about  to  re- 
turn the  salute  when  the  heavy  lamp  fell, 
striking  her  on  the  shoulder  before  it  crashed 
on  to  the  marble  floor. 

Several  men  hurried  forward,  Lucilius  and 
Fabian  among  them,  and  everyone  crowded 
round  asking  if  she  were  hurt. 

“Oh,  no.  It  barely  touched  me,”  she  an- 
swered, though  the  blow  had  made  her  almost 
stagger  into  her  father’s  arms,  and  she  had 
turned  very  white. 

“Are  you  sure?”  Fabian  asked,  anxiously, 
too  eager  for  thought  or  presence  of  mind; 
and  their  eyes  met  as  he  spoke. 

She  knew  him  instantly,  though  he  was  one- 
and-twenty  now,  and  had  been  a lad  of  less  than 
fifteen  when  they  had  met  last.  Her  deadly 
whiteness  did  not  decrease,  but  she  drew  her- 
self up  and  assured  her  father  that  she  could 
stand  quite  well. 

“You  are  so  pale;  are  you  sure  you  do  not 
feel  faint?” 

“No.  I think  I was  startled  more  than  hurt 
. . . Flavia,  you  must  have  been  startled  too. 
It  did  not  strike  you  also?” 

“No;  but  I was  certainly  startled.” 

Lucilius  had  disappeared : now  he  came  back 


FAUSTULA 


269 


carrying  a goblet  of  wine.  He  ought,  un- 
doubtedly, to  have  noticed  that  Flavia  was 
nearly  as  pale  as  her  sister ; but  he  did  not,  and 
begged  Faustula  to  drink  a little  of  the  wine. 

The  young  Vestal  smiled  and  thanked  him, 
and  her  father,  also  thanking  him,  took  the 
goblet  and  made  her  drink  a little  of  the 
wine. 

Flavia  watched  it  all : nothing  escaped  her — 
Fabian’s  anxiety,  the  sudden  zeal  Lucilius  had 
shown,  an  odd  expression  on  the  faces  of  the 
guests.  She  knew  well  they  were  saying  to 
themselves  “The  Evil  Eye  again.”  She 
waited  in  a kind  of  dry  surprise  to  see  whether 
Lucilius  would  turn  with  solicitous  inquiring 
to  herself ; but  he  did  not,  and  she  was  sure  that 
it  was  not  mere  inadvertence.  Such  inadver- 
tence, in  a lover,  would  be  bad  enough;  but 
she  believed  that  he,  too,  had  heard  of  her  rep- 
utation, and  was  now  afraid  of  her  evil  eye. 


END  OF  SECOND  PART 


THIRD  PART 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

IN  the  year  following  the  meeting  between 
Fabian  and  Faustula,  described  in  the  last 
chapter,  Volumina  reached  the  age  of  forty, 
and  ceased  to  be  Vestalis  Maxima.  Li  via 
succeeded  her,  but  being  only  three  years 
younger,  had  not  a long  reign.  Marcia  had 
been  next  in  seniority  of  the  Vestals  whom 
Faustula  had  found  in  the  Atrium  on  her  ar- 
rival, but  Marcia  died  within  a year  of  Faus- 
tula’s  coming,  so  that  there  was  a vacancy  and 
a new  novice,  and  Faustula  was  only  junior 
of  the  community  for  about  eight  months. 

And  so,  too,  when  Livia  was  superseded, 
Caria  took  her  place:  and  her  rule  was  still 
shorter  as  there  was  barely  a year’s  difference 
in  their  ages.  Then  Tacita  became  Vestalis 
Maxima,  and  F austula,  only  twenty  years  old, 
was  second  senior  of  the  six  ordinary  Vestals. 
Of  her  four  juniors  the  one  appointed  on  Mar- 
cia’s death  was  now  nineteen.  Her  name  was 
Lollia,  and  we  shall  have  to  hear  more  of  her. 
The  other  three,  Enina,  who  was  fourteen, 

271 


272 


FAUSTULA 


Calpurina  who  was  eleven,  and  Milvia  who  was 
only  ten,  will  not  greatly  concern  us. 

This  was  the  status  of  the  Vestals  in  the 
summer  of  the  year  360,  when  Faustula  had 
completed  her  ten  years’  novitiate.  The  heat 
in  Rome  was  very  great  and  there  was  much 
sickness,  so  that  at  the  end  of  June,  soon  after 
the  Vestalia,  Tacita  decided  that  the  Vestals 
should  take  it  in  turns  to  leave  the  city,  two 
at  a time,  for  a fortnight,  and  recruit  them- 
selves at  one  or  other  of  the  country  estates  be- 
longing to  the  college.  After  a month  of  duty 
their  turns  would  soon  come  again,  and  Tacita 
intended  that  this  arrangement  should  continue 
till  October. 

During  their  second  absence,  which  fell  in 
September,  Claudia  and  Faustula  were  sent  to 
a property  of  the  Vestals  on  the  sea  between 
Ostia  and  Ardea,  near  Laurentum,  at  the 
place  now  called  Tor  Paterno.  The  choice 
was  somewhat  surprising,  for  the  neighbour- 
hood had  the  reputation  of  being  malarious, 
not  a spot  one  would  seek  in  the  heats  of  Sep- 
tember to  recruit  health.  As  it  happened 
neither  Claudia  nor  Faustula  knew  anything  of 
this,  and  they  were  glad  to  go  anywhere  to- 
gether. The  Vestalis  Maxima  explained  that 
the  estate  had  been  left  too  long  to  itself,  and 


FAUSTULA  273 

she  gave  Claudia  minute  directions  as  to  mat- 
ters requiring  her  attention. 

Tacita  had  not  grown  lovelier  in  the  course 
of  ten  years,  but  she  thought  more  than  ever 
of  her  beauty.  She  was  not  a clever  person, 
though  possessed  of  a sort  of  silky,  monkeyish 
cunning,  and  a little  speech  she  made  to 
Claudia  in  saying  good-bye  betrayed  the 
double  jealousy  from  which  she  suffered. 

“Well,  I hope  you  will  enjoy  the  change,” 
she  said  with  pretty  nods  and  smiles.  “You 
must  take  care  of  your  health.  You  are  an 
important  personage  now — Vestalis  Maxima 
after  me,  you  know.  I regard  you  as  my  heir. 
And  you  must  get  back  your  looks;  this  ter- 
rible summer  has  told  on  you.  A complexion 
like  yours  once  lost  is  never  regained,  and  it 
seems  quite  gone.  Quite.  You  have  grown 
too  thin — you  must  get  plump  again.  Slim- 
ness in  a very  young  girl  is  interesting:  but  if 
one  gets  thin  at  thirty,  one  is  almost  sure  to  be- 
come scraggy — and  there  is  no  cure  for  that. 
So  you  must  put  on  a little  flesh  and  get  back 
your  colour.  I shall  tell  Faustula  to  see  that 
you  follow  my  advice.” 

Accordingly,  with  a perfect  volley  of  smiles 
and  nods,  Tacita  instructed  Faustula  to  bring 
Claudia  back  renewed  in  youth  and  beauty. 


274 


FAUSTULA 


“She  has  gone  off  shockingly,”  she  declared 
cheerfully.  “She  has  just  reached  the  age 
when  so  many  women  lose  their  looks  for  life. 
And  thirty  is  a bad  age  for  the  health  too. 
Anything  the  matter  with  the  constitution  de- 
clares itself.  Mind  I look  to  you  to  see  that 
the  sea  breezes  restore  poor  Claudia — or  she 
may  never  live  to  be  Vestalis  Maxima.” 

Faustula  laughed  demurely,  and  promised 
that  the  sea  breezes  should  do  all  that  was  re- 
quired of  them. 

She  was  not  at  all  anxious  about  Claudia 
who  was  perfectly  well,  only  a little  pale,  and 
fagged  by  the  great  heat.  As  a matter  of  fact 
she  was  quite  as  beautiful  now  as  she  had  been 
ten  years  before,  and  wonderfully  unchanged. 
Her  gentle,  rather  plain,  nature  was  not  of  the 
sort  that  Time  deals  roughly  with:  and  her 
delicate,  flower-like  complexion  had  never  been 
highly  coloured.  Sea-breezes  have  themselves 
been  supposed  injurious  to  such  complexions 
as  Claudia’s. 

Partly  to  avoid  the  heats  of  the  later  day, 
and  partly  to  get  out  of  the  city  while  its  streets 
were  empty,  the  two  Vestals  started  from  the 
Atrium  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  light.  Of 
course  on  a journey  of  nearly  twenty  miles 
they  drove,  and  each  had  her  own  “Currus 
Arenatus,”  a sort  of  chariot  of  fine  wood,  beau- 


FAU8TULA 


275 


tifully  adorned  with  plates  of  embossed  bronze. 
Even  in  Rome  itself  the  Vestals  had  always 
had  the  privilege  of  driving  in  these  chariots  or 
plaustra , though  they  were  usually  carried 
about  the  city  in  litters.  They  had  their  own 
stables,  and  a retinue  of  male  slaves,  who,  of 
course,  did  not  live  in  the  Atrium. 

Faustula  was  delighted  to  get  away  into  the 
country  and  did  not  much  care  where  they 
went,  though  she  would  have  preferred  the 
mountains  to  the  sea.  As  they  passed  her 
father’s  house,  all  closed  and  silent  because  it 
was  so  early,  she  thought  of  Fabian,  whom  she 
had  never  seen  since  that  day  of  the  Lupercalia 
when  they  had  met  almost  without  speaking: 
and  she  thought  of  Flavia,  still  unmarried,  and 
wondered  as  she  recalled  the  strange  bitterness 
and  anger  she  had  read  in  her  sister’s  eyes. 
Where  was  Fabian  now?  Would  they  ever 
meet  again? 

Leaving  Rome  by  the  Porta  Ostiensis  they 
soon  came  to  the  little  Basilica  of  St.  Paul, 
built  by  Constantine  the  Great  over  the  Celia 
Memorice  which  marked  the  place  of  the 
Apostle’s  burial  in  the  vineyard  of  Lucina. 

It  was  twenty-four  years  old  now  and  in 
another  twenty-six  would  be  replaced  by  a 
much  larger  basilica,  built  by  the  Emperors 
Valentinian,  Theodosius  and  Arcadius.  A 


276 


FAUSTULA 


group  of  Christians  was  waiting  under  the 
trees  for  the  doors  to  open  that  they  might  go 
in  and  hear  Mass.  They  were  poor  folk  from 
the  Campagna,  but  their  faces  were  cheerful. 
Of  course  they  turned  to  look  at  the  passing 
chariots,  each  with  its  escort  of  running  slaves : 
and  Faustula  watched  them,  thinking  of  old 
days  at  Civitella  and  Melania’s  happy  de- 
corous household  of  slaves  who  were  like  her 
children. 

The  two  chariots  were  abreast  for  a few 
moments  and  Faustula  spoke  to  Claudia,  with 
a careless  glance  at  her  face.  Something  in 
its  expression  struck  her  and  she  remembered 
it  long  afterwards. 

Soon  after  passing  the  basilica  the  Via 
Laurestina  turns  off  to  the  left,  and  they  left 
the  Ostian  Way  with  its  warehouses  and  villas, 
and  the  road  became  lonelier,  more  countrified, 
and  therefore  more  pleasing  to  Faustula. 

There  was  a rise  in  the  ground  presently, 
and  they  went  more  slowly. 

“Tell  them,”  she  called  out  to  Claudia  who 
was  just  in  front,  “not  to  drive  so  quickly  when 
we  get  on  level  road  again.  It  is  only  sixteen 
miles  and  the  drive  is  pleasant.” 

“Yes,”  Claudia  agreed,  “and  it  is  hard  on 
the  runners  when  we  go  so  fast.” 

Thereupon  she  ordered  her  charioteer  to 


FAUSTULA 


277 


drive  gently  when  they  should  have  reached 
the  top  of  the  little  hill.  Faustula  had  often 
noticed  how  thoughtful  her  friend  was  for 
slaves,  a thing  not  usual  with  the  lordly  and 
luxurious  Vestals. 

“I  like  this,”  Faustula  said,  as  the  chariots 
came  abreast  again.  ‘‘Don’t  you?  It  is  much 
nicer  than  the  Atrium  Vestse  and  the  Forum. 
I can  smell  the  trees;  it  is  the  next  best  smell 
to  that  of  the  hills.” 

Claudia  had  seldom  seen  her  so  cheerful: 
she  seemed  like  a child  let  out  of  a city  school. 
Their  eyes  met  and  Claudia,  behind  the  backs 
of  the  two  charioteers,  formed  with  her  lips 
the  words:  “You  baby!”  but  her  eyes  smiled 
and  it  was  easy  to  see  how  it  pleased  her  that 
Faustula  should  be  happy. 

Poor  Faustula!  She  was  deadly  sick  of 
Rome,  and  deadly  sick  of  being  a Vestal.  It 
was  nothing  to  her  that  she  had  the  right  to 
wear  Imperial  purple,  and  the  right  to  be 
borne  about  with  a lictor  in  front  of  her  lit- 
ter. The  Atrium,  cramped  in  among  all  the 
crowded  buildings  of  the  Forum,  had  seemed 
to  her  during  this  stifling  summer  like  a deep 
box  with  only  half  the  lid  off. 

Presently  they  passed  the  third  milestone 
and  Faustula’s  charioteer  glanced  to  his  left, 
fumbling  with  his  right  hand  under  his  robe. 


278 


FAUSTULA 


“What  do  you  see?”  she  asked. 

“There,”  he  answered,  “is  the  place  they  call 
Ad  Aquas  Salvias:  where  Paul  of  the  Chris- 
tians was  beheaded — ” The  man,  who  had  a 
good  serene  face,  paused,  and  seemed  to  hes- 
itate. 

“Well?”  said  Faustula.  “Go  on.  What 
is  the  story?” 

“The  story,”  he  replied,  “is  that  on  the  day 
when  the  Apostle  of  the  Christians  was  slain, 
a certain  noble  lady,  called  Plantilla,  stood  by 
the  wayside,  waiting  to  behold  him  for  the  last 
time.  He  had  converted  her;  and,  as  they 
hurried  him  from  his  prison  to  his  death,  and 
came  by,  she  knelt,  weeping  sorely,  to  beg  his 
blessing.  Proud  of  her  courage  and  faith  the 
Apostle  blest  her,  and  begged  that  she  would 
lend  him  her  veil  wherewith  to  blindfold  his 
eyes  when  he  should  be  beheaded.  ‘Lend  it!’ 
scoffed  one  of  his  jailors.  ‘Give  it  rather!’ 
‘Nay,  but  I will  render  it  again,’  said  the 
Apostle  gently:  and  Plantilla,  full  of  faith  and 
charity,  and  woman’s  pity,  took  off  her  veil 
and  gave  it  to  him.  Then  they  bade  him  come 
on  and  brought  him  yonder — Ad  Aquas 
Salvias — where  the  church  is  now.  There  is 
still  the  pillar  to  which  they  bound  him,  and 
the  block  of  marble  whereon  he  laid  his  head 
for  the  sword.  When  it  was  stricken  off  it 


FAUSTULA 


279 


fell  to  the  earth,  and  where  it  struck  is  a foun- 
tain of  warm  water  that  never  fails;  then 
it  bounded  and  struck  the  earth  again,  and 
there  is  a second  fountain  of  tepid  water ; again 
it  bounded  and,  where  it  struck  the  third  time, 
is  a fountain  of  ice-cold  water.  Her  lips  at 
each  striking  of  the  earth  spoke  the  name  of 
his  God,  ‘Jesus,’  ‘Jesus,’  ‘Jesus.’  That  is  the 
story.” 

Faustula  listened  gravely  while  he  told  her 
all  this,  without  any  incredulous  smile.  She 
was  sure  the  man  was  himself  a Christian,  but 
she  would  not  ask  him.  She  knew  that  many 
Christian  slaves  had  heathen  masters,  but  it 
seemed  strange  that  a slave  of  the  Vestals 
should  be  a Christian. 

When  he  had  ended  his  story  she  said 
gently:  “Prosit!” 

And  the  man’s  face  lighted  with  a smile  that 
was  like  a seal  on  the  secret  he  had  told  her. 

“God  bless  you,  lady,”  he  said  quietly. 
“Benedicat  tibi  Christus  Noster,  Redemptor 
ac  Liberator.” 

Faustula  smiled  and  he  knew  she  was  not 
offended:  perhaps  it  was  the  first  time  a Vestal 
had  been  blessed  to  her  face  in  the  name  of 
Christ. 

After  another  hill  they  came  to  a bridge, 
and  the  way  went  by  the  valley  called  now  Val- 


280 


FAUSTULA 


lerano.  The  smell  of  trees  was  in  Faustula’s 
nostrils,  and  the  fresh  moving  breeze  touched 
her  cheek  like  a caress:  they  were  in  the  forest 
soon,  and  bars  of  light  and  shadow  lay  upon 
tlie  road  and  on  her  face.  She  felt  younger 
than  she  had  felt  for  long,  long  years,  and  a 
light,  almost  like  that  of  happiness,  shone  in 
her  deep  and  lovely  eyes. 

“Oh,  Claudia,”  she  begged,  when  they  came 
to  another  hill,  “may  I not  walk?  Do  let  us 
walk.  It  will  ease  the  horses.” 

Claudia  laughed  and  consented,  and  they 
both  got  down  and  walked  up  the  hill,  bid- 
ding the  others  go  on  and  wait  for  them  at  the 
top. 

“Why  did  you  ask  leave?  You  are  not  a 
novice  now,”  said  Claudia,  laughing,  when  the 
chariots  and  their  escort  had  moved  on. 

“Because  I want  to  be  good.  I feel  good, 
and  it  is  a new  sensation.  Part  of  our  holi- 
day. I want  to  be  good  all  the  time  as  long 
as  we  are  alone  together.” 

“Afterwards  too,  I hope.” 

Faustula  made  a queer  little  grimace. 

“Oh,  afterwards?  I’m  always  good  enough 
for  Tacita  and  the  Atrium  Vestas  . . . but 
I’m  not  always  good  enough  for  you.” 

Claudia  sighed,  a very  small,  inaudible  sigh. 
She  was  always  hoping,  and  against  hope,  that 


FAUSTULA 


281 


Faustula  might  overthrow  her  loathing  of  the 
Atrium  Vestee:  but  she  never  asked.  She  sup- 
posed it  was  lack  of  moral  courage,  but  that 
lack  is  sometimes  rather  like  tact  and  consid- 
erate forbearance. 

“Let  us  forget  all  about  the  Atrium  Vestas 
for  a fortnight!”  Faustula  proposed  irrever- 
ently. 

Claudia  shook  her  head. 

“We  can  never  forget,”  she  observed  rather 
primly,  “that  we  are  Vestals.” 

“No,  that  is  true,”  Faustula  retorted  with 
her  naughtiest  smile.  “But  we  can  try.  I 
shall  almost  succeed  if  you’ll  let  me  alone.” 
For  a few  moments  Claudia  said  no  more; 
but  the  smell  of  the  pines  was  in  her  nostrils 
too,  and  she  also  could  see  the  tangle  of  shade 
and  sun  down  the  long  aisles  of  the  lovely  for- 
est. 

“There’s  a butterfly,”  she  cried,  quite 
eagerly.  “What  colours!” 

“I  should  like  to  run  after  him,”  Faustula 
declared,  “but  if  I caught  him  I would  not 
keep  him.  I would  only  tell  him  to  fly  off 
and  enjoy  himself — he  hadn’t  much  time.” 
“You  would  love  to  run  ...”  and  Claudia 
turned  a smiling  face.  “I  saw  that  the  mo- 
ment we  got  down:  and  what  a hypocrite  you 
are;  you  pretended  it  was  to  ease  the  horses!” 


282 


FAUSTULA 


“Of  course  I’m  a hypocrite.  I’ve  been 
learning  ten  years  . . She  laughed,  and 
her  bitter  merriment  was  like  the  bars  of  black 
and  yellow  that  the  sun  and  shade  made  as 
they  met  and  strove  together. 


CHAPTER  XXX 


The  estate  of  the  Vestals  upon  which 
Claudia  and  Faustula  had  come  to  live 
for  two  weeks  was  large,  but  had  not  much 
value  except  for  the  timber  with  which  three- 
fourths  of  it  was  covered.  The  land  on  which 
no  trees  grew,  or  which  had  been  cleared  of 
trees  was  lean  and  marshy  and  overgrown  with 
asphodel.  All  day  long  the  peasants  seemed 
labouring  to  pluck  up,  or  mow  down  with 
their  sickles,  the  tall  stiff  stems  covered  with 
starry  pinkish-white  blossoms — the  flowers  of 
death.  But  death  is  stronger  than  us,  and 
the  peasants,  generation  by  generation,  have 
bowed  their  heads  to  a harder  sickle  than 
their  own,  and  the  flowers  of  death  bloom  on 
till  now,  in  the  swampy  fallows  by  the  Latin 
shore. 

Often  Faustula  sat  idle  on  the  edge  of  the 
forest  and  watched  the  country-folk  at  their 
toil.  They  worked  in  huge  bands,  men  and 
women  together,  and  the  dress  of  the  women 
was  pretty  and  graceful,  far  more  so,  she 
thought,  than  her  own.  She  knew  how  hard 
and  poverty-stricken  were  their  lives,  but  they 
had  no  air  of  discontent,  and  sang  and  laughed 

283 


284 


FAUSTULA 


as  they  plied  their  unavailing  task  against 
death’s  pale  obdurate  flower. 

Sometimes  when  a group  of  girls  was  near 
her,  she  would  smile  as  one  or  other  of  them 
looked  up  and  turned  her  great  black  eyes  her 
way:  they  would  smile  back  and  make  a cour- 
teous reverence,  not  slavishly,  for  Latins  are 
never  slavish  to  the  high  and  great,  but  with  a 
gracious  sweetness  of  respect. 

It  often  occupied  her  idle  fancy  to  wonder 
which  of  them  were  Christians:  for  she  knew 
that  the  Christian  faith  was  spreading,  spread- 
ing, and  that  among  the  slaves  and  the  poorest 
peasants  it  spread  fastest.  This  fancy  of  hers 
was  all  a part  of  her  clinging  to  the  memory 
of  those  old  childish  days  at  Civitella,  when 
the  difference  first  struck  her  between  Me- 
lania’s slaves  and  Sabina’s.  There  were  times 
when  the  expression  in  those  keen,  observant 
peasant  eyes,  as  one  or  other  of  the  labouring 
girls  would  return  her  friendly  smile,  half  hurt 
her,  half  angered  her.  She  pitied  herself,  but, 
to  the  proud,  pity  of  others  is  intolerable;  and 
she  knew  that  not  one  of  those  toiling  women 
envied  her.  They  all  knew  who  she  was:  her 
exalted  rank,  her  wealth:  but,  for  all  her  fine 
food  and  raiment,  she  could  clearly  see  they 
held  for  her  a gentle,  courteously-veiled  com- 
passion. 


FAUSTULA 


285 


In  this  they  were  all  alike,  those  with  harder 
eyes  and  less  contented  faces  whom  she  chose 
to  think  were  heathens  like  herself,  and  those 
with  a gentler,  more  serene  air  whom  she  made 
out  to  be  Christians. 

One  day,  a woman  working  near  her  had  a 
baby  in  her  arms,  and  tried  to  tend  it  and  mind 
her  work  at  the  same  time.  But  the  tiny  child 
was  fretful,  and  the  mother  was  distraught  be- 
tween love  and  toil. 

“Is  the  baby  sick?”  Faustula  asked  gently, 
beckoning  to  the  woman  to  come  to  her. 

“Ah,  yes.  The  marsh-fever.  . . .” 

“Can  you  not  stay  at  home  and  nurse  it?” 

“No,  no,  lady.  The  father  and  I must 
work.  And  there  is  no  one  at  home  to  tend 
him.  It  will  not  be  for  long.  The  baby  will 
die  soon.” 

“You  have  others?” 

“None.  Only  this  one.  And  we  were  mar- 
ried long  before  this  one  came.  There  will  be 
no  more.  But  I have  had  it.  I am  a mother. 
When  it  goes  I shall  be  its  mother  still.  God 
will  take  it,  but  He  will  leave  me  that.  He 
understands.  I am  a mother,  that  is  almost 
like  Himself : when  His  children  die  He  goes 
on  being  their  Father.  And  we  are  poor, 
poor,  poor:  as  poor  as  empty  oyster-shells: 
it  will  be  free.  There  could  be  no  other  way.” 


286 


FAUSTULA 


Faustula  knew  the  woman  was  a Christian 
because  she  spoke  of  God  personally  and  in 
the  singular  number;  she  was  torn  with  pity 
for  her,  and  yet  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the 
woman  pitied  her  also. 

“Give  it  me,”  she  said.  “I  will  hold  it  while 
you  work.” 

“Ah,  but  you  are  too  good;  and  you  do  not 
know  how.” 

She  would  not  give  it  up.  Then  Faustula 
gave  her  money,  more  money  than  the  woman 
had  ever  seen  at  one  time  in  all  her  life,  and 
with  a thousand  thanks  and  obeisances  she  went 
back  to  her  toil  in  the  pitiless  sun,  clutching 
her  baby  to  her  own  breast  of  a mother. 

It  was  afternoon  and  the  blinding  light 
where  the  peasants  toiled,  fretted  Faustula, 
though  she  herself  sat  idle  in  the  fragrant 
shade. 

She  rose  and  turned  away,  strolling,  heed- 
lessly, towards  the  sea. 

The  house  in  which  she  and  Claudia  were 
living  for  those  two  weeks  was  seldom  occu- 
pied except  by  the  steward  and  his  family. 
One  part  of  it  was  square  and  low,  and  it  was 
there  the  steward  lived.  At  one  end  rose  a 
tall  tower  in  which  were  the  big,  gaunt  rooms 
now  tenanted  by  the  two  Vestals.  All  around 
was  the  Silva  Laurentina,  the  forest  older  than 


FAUSTULA 


287 


Rome,  running  right  down  to  the  shore  and 
skirting  the  coast  for  many  miles.  Hither 
came  the  wanderers  from  Troy  to  cut  its  tim- 
ber, and  Faustula’s  heedless  steps  carried  her 
towards  the  very  place  upon  the  shallow  shore 
where  iEneas  and  his  braves  landed.  From 
the  sea  a fresh  sweet  gale  blew  in  among  the 
trees,  and  in  their  netted  shadow  it  was  cool 
and  dusky.  The  smell  of  the  pines  was  like 
incense,  and  among  them  grew  huge  ilexes  and 
bay-trees  with  dark  glossy  leaves. 

Someone  advised  the  Emperor  Commodus 
to  come  here  to  inhale  the  wholesome  odours 
of  the  wood,  and  he  built  a villa  deep  in  the  for- 
est ; but  Commodus  was  not  very  dearly  loved, 
and  perhaps  those  who  gave  the  plausible  ad- 
vice remembered  the  swamps  that  break  its 
vast  monotony,  whence  ghostly  veils  of  mist 
creep  at  dawn,  deathly  and  feverous.  Virgil 
speaks  of  one  of  these  swamps,  and  Faustula 
and  Claudia  heard  for  themselves  at  night  the 
weird,  loud  croaking  of  the  millions  of  frogs 
that  populate  the  marshes,  whereof  Martial 
had  sung  two  and  a half  centuries  before  either 
of  them  were  born.  Not  far  from  the  villa  of 
the  Vestals  Laurentum  was  still  standing  then, 
but  almost  empty.  It  was  called  “Urbs 
Vacua”  by  Lucan,  while  St.  Peter  and  St. 
Paul  were  still  alive,  three  hundred  years  be- 


288 


FAUSTULA 


fore  Faustula  came  to  stay  in  the  Silva  Lau- 
rentina. 

The  frogs  were  silent  as  she  wandered 
through  the  forest  towards  the  shore,  but  there 
was  the  drone  of  innumerable  insects,  and  the 
sharp  dry  rasping  of  the  cicala  that  is  like  no 
other  sound,  though  the  “drumming”  of  a 
snipe,  very  high  up  in  the  air,  always  makes 
me  think  of  it. 

Faustula  had  exclaimed,  with  bitter  outcry, 
against  Claudia  long  ago,  when  she  had  said 
that  life  is  short.  Ten  years  of  her  own  life 
had  gone  by  since  then,  and  to-day  it  seemed 
to  her  that  all  of  it  was  slipping  like  sand,  be- 
tween her  fingers  and  would  leave  them  empty, 
emptier  than  Laurentum,  for  men  had  lived 
and  loved  there  once,  and  even  now  a few  peas- 
ant-slaves huddled  there,  and,  perhaps,  knew 
what  life  and  love  are. 

She  came  to  the  edge  of  the  forest  where  it 
fringes  the  low  vacant  shore,  and  sat  down,  her 
face  seaward,  under  the  shade  of  the  last  tree. 
There  was  not  a sail  on  all  the  wide  water. 
Under  the  horizon  it  was  deep  sapphire-blue, 
nearer,  there  were  long  blurs  of  amethyst  and 
opal.  Close  beneath  her  was  a belt  of  shingle ; 
beyond,  a narrow  saffron  band  of  smooth, 
moist  sand. 

She  watched  it  all,  and  was  grateful  to  it 


FAUSTULA 


289 


for  its  beauty,  most  grateful  for  its  emptiness, 
after  the  crowded  noise  of  Rome;  but  she 
watched  unheeding,  her  thoughts  twisted  in  a 
vague  tangle  of  memories  and  irritations.  She 
remembered  the  cella  of  the  temple  and  its 
great  broidery  over  the  door,  with  Clotho  ever 
spinning  and  Atropos  ever  bending  forth  to 
cut  the  frail  and  futile  thread. 

Why  should  the  Fates  weave,  and  she  be 
subject  to  their  cold  and  ruthless  shears? 
What  did  it  all  mean?  What  did  Life  mean, 
the  greatest  thing  she  knew,  and  that  of  which 
she  knew  least  ? 

When  Claudia  first  set  about  telling  her 
why  she  had  become  a Vestal,  Faustula  had 
interrupted  her  by  her  petulant  outcry;  but 
Claudia  had  told  her  years  ago  it  did  not  help 
herself;  for  Claudia  believed  in  Vesta  and  the 
gods  and  she  did  not.  Even  for  her  own  sake 
she  would  have  believed  in  them,  if  she  could, 
and  worshipped  them  with  a true  and  not 
merely  ritual  worship ; but  she  could  not. 
They  were  no  better  than  herself,  most  of 
them  much  worse.  Her  life  was  dry  for  lack 
of  anything  to  reverence. 

Along  the  shore  from  the  direction  of  Ostia 
a horseman  rode  upon  the  firm  soundless  sand, 
not  rapidly,  but  for  pastime,  and  he  was  close 
opposite  to  the  place  where  Faustula  sat,  be- 


290  FAUSTULA 

fore  she  saw  him  just  a moment  after  he  had 
seen  her. 

“Fabian!”  she  called  out,  and  he  turned  at 
once,  recognizing  her  voice  instantly.  He  dis- 
mounted and  led  his  horse  up  to  where  she  was, 
and  tied  it  to  a tree. 

“This  is  the  place  where  iEneas  landed  long 
ago,”  he  said  laughingly,  when  he  had  greeted 
her.  “I  thought  you  must  be  Lavinia  waiting 
for  him.” 

“She  did  not  know  he  was  coming,  neither 
did  I know  you  were.  What  are  you  doing 
here  riding  alone  by  the  sea?” 

“My  quarter  is  yonder  in  Ostia:  what  are 
you  doing,  sitting  here  all  by  yourself  on  the 
Latin  shore?” 

She  told  him;  and  told  him  plainly  how 
happy  she  was  to  escape,  even  for  two  weeks, 
from  Rome  and  the  Atrium  Vestas. 

“I  did  not  think  you  were  looking  particu- 
larly happy — I saw  you  a moment  before  you 
called  to  me.” 

“No,  I was  not  feeling  especially  happy  just 
then.  . . .” 

She  paused  a moment,  and  he  also  hesitated, 
then  he  said  gently: 

“I  hope  you  are  happy  though,  dear  Faus- 
tula.” 

She  did  not  answer — could  not ; and  he  could 


FAUSTULA 


291 


only  go  on:  “I  think  of  you  constantly  . . . 
constantly.  Almost  always.  And  I can  only 
pray  that,  somehow,  you  may  be  happy.” 

“ ‘Somehow’ ?” 

He  hesitated  again,  for  he  did  not  know 
what  it  might  be  wrong  to  say. 

“I  mean  simply  this,”  he  said  gently;  “that 
1 could  not  understand  you  being  a Vestal. 
It  did  not  seem  to  suit  with  my  idea  of 
you.  But  it  is  years  since  we  have  met  and 
talked  together,  and  I have  told  myself, 
often,  how  little  I may  know  of  what  you  are 
now.” 

“I  am  just  the  same.” 

If  she  had  told  him  in  a thousand  words  he 
could  not  have  understood  more  plainly  that 
there  was  nothing  in  her  that  did  “suit  with  the 
idea  of  her  being  a Vestal.”  Not  all  at  once, 
nor  all  on  that  occasion,  for  they  met  often 
after  this,  she  told  him  how  she  had  become 
one:  and  why  the  life  of  the  Atrium  choked 
and  stifled  her. 

“It  is  all  a he.  I care  no  more  for  Vesta, 
than  I care  for  that,”  she  said,  picking  up  a 
pebble  and  tossing  it  over  the  shingles  on  to  the 
sand.  “If  I could  believe  I cared  it  would  do 
as  well  as  anything  else.” 

It  was  hard  for  him  to  speak.  To  speak 
might  be  so  cruel;  and  he  was  full  of  anger 


292 


FAUSTULA 


against  those  who  had  flung  her  aside  as  into 
a convenient,  lawful  grave. 

“I  daresay  it  sounds  wicked,”  she  went  on. 
“You  think  I ought  to  care  for  Yesta  and  the 
rest  of  them,  since  they  are  my  gods.” 

“Do  you  believe  in  them?” 

“No.” 

“How  can  they  be  your  gods  then?  If  I 
believed  in  them  I might  think  it  wicked  of  you 
to  say  you  do  not.  But  I don’t.  And,  even 
if  I did,  I should  think  them  wicked  who  had 
forced  you  to  take  a vow  you  hate.” 

“As  to  that  I do  not  see  that  I took  any 
vow.  I was  brought  before  the  Flamen  and 
he  ‘administered  the  vow,’  as  they  told  me 
afterwards.  He  muttered  something  and  I 
was  ordered  to  say  I assented  to  it.  What  he 
said  I could  scarcely  make  out ; and  I was  not 
quite  ten  years  old — I could  not  have  under- 
stood the  old  queer  words  even  if  I had  heard 
them  properly.  Oh,  how  hot  it  has  grown. 
The  breeze  has  dropped  . . .” 

“It  often  does  towards  evening,”  Fabian  an- 
swered not  thinking  so  much  of  his  own  words 
as  of  what  she  had  been  saying. 

“This  thing  makes  my  head  so  hot,”  Faus- 
tula  complained:  and  she  pushed  the  closely 
folded  infula  back  till  it  dropped  on  her  neck 
behind,  and  left  her  hair  free.  Her  long  thick 


FAUSTULA 


293 


hair,  like  newly  minted  bronze,  had  grown 
again  years  and  years  ago. 

Fabian  hardly  noticed  that  she  did  this. 
His  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  oily  cream- 
ing sea.  But  another  pair  of  eyes  noted:  the 
narrow,  shallow  black  eyes  of  one  of  Tacita’s 
slaves.  She  was  standing  half  a dozen  paces 
behind  them,  hidden  by  a low  thicket  of  ge- 
nesta  brambles  and  wild  oleander. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 


Faustula  did  not  tell  Claudia  of  her  meet- 
ing with  Fabian.  When  she  got  back 
to  the  villa  Claudia  was  still  out,  and  when 
supper-time  arrived,  and  they  were  together, 
Claudia  began  at  once  to  tell  of  her  own  occu- 
pations. She  had  been  visiting  the  huts  of 
the  slaves  in  more  than  one  of  the  hamlets  be- 
longing to  the  estate,  and  was  pained  by  their 
poverty  and  wretchedness. 

“Outside,  as  you  have  seen  for  yourself,” 
she  said,  “they  are  quaint  and  rather  pretty — 
like  tents;  but  inside  they  are  utterly  misera- 
ble; there  is  only  one  tiny  room  for  a whole 
family  to  live  and  sleep  in.  It  seems  cruel, 
ghastly,  that  we  should  be  so  rich  and  they 
should  be  so  poor.” 

“I  never  can  see  much  good  our  wealth  does 
us,”  Faustula  answered.  “They  do  not  look 
wretched — do  you  not  notice  that?” 

“Out  of  doors,  when  they  are  well,  and  all 
at  work  together,  they  do  seem  happy  enough, 
I agree  with  you ; but,  Faustula,  I found  many 
of  them  sick,  huddled  in  straw  like  sick  beasts, 
shivering  with  fever.  You  would  think  they 
would  be  beasts;  but  they  are  not.  Many  of 

294 


FAUSTULA 


295 


them  are  Christians,  and  I met  their  priest,  an 
old  man  with  a gentle  manner,  though  nearly 
as  poor-looking  as  the  peasants.  He  walked 
with  me  towards  home,  and  that  was  why  I 
came  in  so  late.  He  was  very  kind,  and  told 
me  it  was  not  wise  for  me  to  stay  out  after  the 
dusk,  for  then  it  is  easiest  to  catch  the  fever. 
We  talked  much  about  the  people,  and  he  says 
they  are  wonderfully  good.  ‘You  mean  your 
own  people,  I suppose,’  I said,  but  he  said 
quietly,  ‘Nay,  Dom’na  Claudia,  your  folk  are 
good  too,  many,  many  of  them;  most  charita- 
ble to  each  other,  to  my  children  as  well  as  to 
yours.’  I gave  him  some  money,  and  he  said 
it  was  a great  deal,  though  I did  not  think  it 
much.  He  said  it  would  help  a great  many 
of  them.” 

“I  have  lots  of  money,”  Faustula  declared, 
“and  you  shall  have  it  to  give  to  your  old 
priest.” 

“Nay,”  Claudia  laughed,  “he  is  not  my 
priest:  but  he  is  a very  good  man,  and  I wish 
we  could  give  him  something  for  himself.  He 
looks  as  if  he  never  ate  anything  better  than 
what  the  peasants  eat  themselves,  and  his 
clothes  were  almost  ragged  . . . But  I can’t 
see  why  the  huts  should  be  so  wretched  and  so 
small : there  are  trees  enough,  in  conscience,  for 
all  to  have  roomy  wooden  houses.” 


296 


FAUSTULA 


For  a long  time  they  talked  about  what  was 
entirely  filling  Claudia’s  mind:  then  suddenly 
Faustula  asked: 

“What  is  that  fresh  slave  of  Tacita’s  doing 
here?  I saw  her  soon  after  I came  in.  She  is 
like  a bad  wind.” 

“Dirce?  Tacita  sent  her  from  Rome  with 
a letter  for  me  full  of  directions  about  the  es- 
tate.” 

“Well,  write  the  answer  to-night  and  send 
her  back  in  the  morning.  Her  mouth  is 
crooked,  so  are  her  eyes.  She  seems  to  be  al- 
ways twisting  a smile  out  of  herself,  and  it 
won’t  come.  All  she  can  get  out  is  a squint.” 
“I  can’t  send  her  back  at  once.  Tacita  says 
the  girl  has  been  sick,  and  thinks  it  might  do 
her  good  to  stay  here  a few  days.” 

“I  hope  she  didn’t  see  you  and  your  priest 
walking  together.  She  would  certainly  tell 
our  Maxima,  and  Tacita  might  not  approve.” 
“I  shall  tell  Tacita  myself.  Faustula,  you 
are  a baby  in  some  things.  Just  because  Dirce 
squints  a little,  and  her  lip  cocks  up  on  one  side, 
you  make  her  into  a conspirator.” 

“I  do  not  make  her  a conspirator.  If  she 
is  one,  it  is  other  people  who  make  her  one. 
But  take  care!  You  know  very  well  what  the 
Atrium  is — all  tale  bearing  and  whispering 


FAUSTULA  297 

“Tacita  likes  a gossip,  but  she  is  good-na- 
tured . . 

“You  call  me  a baby!  I’m  years  older  than 
you,  my  good  Claudia.  You  think  Tac- 
ita  good-natured  because  she  has  dimples,  and 
is  always  showing  her  pretty  little  teeth.  I 
much  preferred  Volumina.  She  was  wooden, 
and  full  of  knots,  but  not  bad.  Once,  when 
some  of  them  had  been  carrying  tales  of  me, 
she  told  me  and  said:  ‘I  generally  conclude 
when  people  bring  me  tales  that  they  have 
some  little  affairs  of  their  own  that  they  want 
to  conceal.  All  the  same,  you  should  be  pru- 
dent : your  tongue  is  a bad  sword  in  other  peo- 
ple’s hands.  If  it  strikes  you  that  anyone  is 
a fool  don’t  proclaim  the  discovery,  for  it’s  no 
great  matter — a fool  is  easily  discerned.’ 
Old  Plotina  warned  me  against  Dirce.  ‘It’s 
easy  to  flatter  Tacita,’  she  said,  ‘but  not  easy 
to  flatter  her  as  much  as  she  wants.  And 
Dirce  gives  her  as  much  as  her  mouth  will  hold.’ 
Plotina  begged  me  to  warn  you,  too.  She 
knows  she  is  a spy  and  a liar.  And  Tacita  has 
the  same  grudge  against  us  both.” 

“What  grudge?”  Claudia  asked  innocently. 

“My  poor  Claudia  how  young  you  are!” 
Faustula  laughed.  “Tacita  thinks  more  of 
being  the  beauty  of  the  Atrium  Vestae  than  of 
being  Vestalis  Maxima.” 


298 


FAUSTULA 


Claudia  blushed,  but  Faustula  only  laughed 
again.  She  could  not  help  knowing  that  she 
was  beautiful,  hut  vanity  was  not  in  her,  and 
the  fact  that  she  was  beautiful  was  merely  a 
fact,  like  the  fact  that  she  was  a patrician.  As 
her  beauty  and  her  birth  had  not  been  arranged 
by  herself,  she  took  them  for  granted  like  her 
digestion. 

What  may  seem  odd  was,  that,  though  it 
was  Faustula  who  warned  Claudia  against 
Dirce,  and  Claudia  who  seemed  to  laugh  at  her 
cautions,  Claudia  really  put  herself  somewhat 
on  her  guard,  and  Faustula,  after  talking 
about  it,  soon  forgot  the  matter.  There  was  a 
touch  of  scornfulness  in  her  character  which 
made  it  disagreeable  to  her  to  make  much,  in 
her  own  case,  of  a danger  from  a mean  slave. 
And,  like  most  people  of  active  imagination 
and  quick,  vagrant  thought,  she  was  often  ab- 
sent-minded, occupied  with  her  own  ideas 
rather  than  with  petty  external  circumstances. 
She  was  at  once  observant  and  inattentive,  no- 
ticing, like  her  father,  many  things  that  were 
lost  on  eyes  less  alert  for  beauty  and  disregard- 
ing ugly,  dull,  unpleasing  matters  that  were 
only  of  “practical”  significance. 

As  it  happened  Dirce  only  stayed  at  the 
villa  a week,  and,  while  she  was  there,  Claudia 
was  plainly  cautious : but  the  Greek  had  heard 


FAUSTULA 


299 


this  and  that  and  had  a report  to  make  of  her 
too.  Faustula’s  wanderings  did  not  lead  her 
towards  the  hamlets,  but  towards  the  sea,  and 
Dirce  found  it  easier  to  track  her  unobserved 
than  it  would  have  been  to  follow  Claudia  in 
a direction  where  there  were  more  people  who 
might  see  her.  And  Dirce  was  not  physically 
energetic:  it  was  only  half  a mile  to  the  shore, 
and  led  away  from  the  swamps,  of  which  she 
had  a timid  suspicion.  The  way  was  all  in 
cool  shade,  when  there  was  a breeze  anywhere 
it  would  be  met  there.  Dirce  owed  a duty  to 
her  health  which  it  was  pleasant  to  combine 
with  her  business  arrangements. 

Sometimes  on  her  way  to  the  shore  she  would 
see  a wild  boar,  or  a group  of  buffaloes,  and 
she  gave  them  a wide  berth,  for  her  idea  was 
that  all  animals  were  more  or  less  dangerous. 

“Ah,  my  dears,”  she  would  say  to  herself, 
peeping  towards  them,  “it’s  a good  arrange- 
ment that  you  can’t  talk.” 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


Fabian  and  Faustula  sometimes  met  when 
Dirce  was  not  there  to  see : for  the  slave 
was  not  always  able  to  escape,  and  escape 
alone,  from  the  Villa:  and  it  must  not  be  sup- 
posed that,  when  she  was  a witness  of  their 
meetings,  she  was  able  to  hear  all,  or  nearly 
all,  that  they  said.  People  do  not  carry  on 
confidential  conversations  at  the  top  of  their 
voice,  and  Dirce  could  seldom  find  a hiding- 
place  quite  near  them.  Still,  she  did,  on  many 
occasions,  catch  scraps  and  tags  of  what  they 
said,  and  the  context  she  invented  for  her- 
self. 

There  was  nothing  in  all  they  said  of  which 
either  need  have  been  ashamed,  but  much  that 
would  have  been  dangerous  even  if  fully  and 
truly  reported.  For  Fabian  frankly  tried  to 
set  before  the  friend  of  his  boyhood  the  truth 
of  what  he  himself  believed.  Though  he  had 
met  her  alone  a hundred  times  he  would  not 
have  done  this  but  for  her  own  flat  avowal 
that  she  cared  nothing  for  the  gods  and  had 
no  belief  in  them. 

It  was  odd  how  little  changed  she  seemed  to 

him;  her  voice  was  like  an  echo  out  of  the  old 

300 


FAUSTULA 


301 


days  at  Olibanum  and  Civitella,  and  her  char- 
acter had  rather  grown  than  altered.  To  her, 
too,  he  seemed  the  Fabian  she  had  known  long 
ago:  the  first  person  who  had  ever  shown  a si- 
lent desire  to  help  and  serve  her. 

At  first  he  spoke  almost  reluctantly  of  his 
own  faith,  but  it  was  not  possible  that  he  could 
miss  seeing  how  eagerly  she  listened : and  what 
else  could  he  give  her  but  what  he  had  himself  ? 
Her  life  was  dry  and  empty,  not  merely  be- 
cause its  outward  routine  was  irksome,  but  be- 
cause it  was  founded  on  an  unreal  basis,  and 
she  could  not  be  a comfortable  hypocrite:  nor 
was  she  content  to  find  in  the  universe  nothing 
better  than  herself.  There  are  shallow  na- 
tures that  feel  no  need  of  reverence,  and  can 
be  satisfied  with  mere  customary  shows  of  it 
without  any  inward  sentiment,  whose  religion 
is  no  more  than  conformity  to  external  con- 
ventions. But  Fabian  understood  that  if 
Faustula  did  not  worship  it  was  because  she 
could  only  worship  that  which  compelled  her 
reverence  by  itself;  and  not  at  all  because  the 
faculty  of  worship  was  absent. 

Until  she  found  a god  higher  than  herself 
she  must  be  godless : and  she  had  not  that  sort 
of  blindness  that  sees  what  does  not  exist. 
There  are  women  who,  in  fact,  worship  some 
man,  reading  into  his  character  perfections 


302 


FAUSTULA 


that  they  put  there  themselves.  So  there  may 
have  been  devout  heathens  who  have  seen  in 
the  gods  a goodness  that  was  only  reflected 
from  themselves.  Faustula  could  not  be  a de- 
vout heathen,  for  she  could  only  worship  what 
existed,  and  lacked  this  faculty  of  ascribing 
out  of  herself  what  only  existed  in  herself. 
If  she  had  tried  she  would  have  failed:  for, 
after  all,  she  would  have  known  that  the  god 
was  of  her  own  making  and  could  be  no  bet- 
ter than  herself.  Her  god  must  be,  not  only 
not  worse  than  men,  but  greater  than  any 
man. 

Meanwhile  she  was  perishing  of  famine,  and 
her  whole  nature  would  have  shrivelled  and 
turned  away  had  this  incapacity  for  reverence 
continued  to  the  end. 

Of  the  minutiae  of  Christianity  Fabian  at 
first  said  nothing:  telling  only,  as  simply  as 
he  could,  of  the  God  of  the  Christians  of 
Whom  she  knew  much  less  than  he  could  have 
supposed  possible.  The  heathen  world  and 
the  Christian  lay  side  by  side  so  close  in  the 
Roman  world  of  that  day  that  it  was  astonish- 
ing to  find  how  totally  ignorant  Faustula  was 
of  what  the  Christians  worshipped.  He  dis- 
covered, as  we  sometimes  discover  now,  more 
than  fifteen  centuries  later,  that  those  who 
first  turn  their  eyes  towards  the  Church  have 


FAUSTULA 


303 


scarcely  any  conception  of  the  idea  of  God. 
The  notion  of  the  gods  instead  of  helping  to  it 
was  a hindrance. 

But  if  ignorant  Faustula  was  not  dull;  and, 
if  great  spiritual  conceptions  were  new  to  her 
experience,  they  were  congenial  to  her  nature. 
The  more  sublime  were  the  suggestions  the 
more  were  they  welcome  to  her.  If  some  of 
the  ideas  opened  to  her  transcended  human 
comprehension  it  was  only  a reminder  of  their 
divinity.  Faustula’s  hunger  would  never 
have  been  satisfied  by  a god  whose  idea  could 
be  completely  expressed  in  any  phrase  of  lan- 
guage. 

Of  the  true  story  of  Christ,  she  first  heard 
upon  the  Latin  shore,  one  golden  afternoon, 
from  Fabian’s  lips.  So  far  as  she  knew  it  be- 
fore it  was  the  tale  of  a Hebrew  provincial  who 
had  met  a slave’s  death  for  fancying  himself 
a King.  What  Fabian  dwelt  on  most  was  that 
no  one  took  His  life  from  Him.  “Oblatus  est 
quia  ipse  voluit.”  “I  lay  down  my  life  of  my- 
self, no  man  taketh  it  from  me  . . . for  this 
cause  came  I into  the  world.”  And  the  final 
proof  of  it — that  when  Death  had  served  his 
turn,  He,  the  King,  gave  Death,  His  servant, 
signal  of  dismissal  and  called  back  Life,  His 
other  servant,  that  but  waited  on  His  sum- 


mons. 


304 


FAUSTULA 


That  He  had  come,  unsummoned  except  by 
the  resistless  call  of  Love,  which  is  Himself, 
and  come  simply  to  suffer,  that  was  what  con- 
quered Faustula.  That  use  of  absolute  om- 
nipotence could  have  occurred  to  no  mere  man. 
Omnipotence  can  have  no  master : omnipotence 
yielding  itself  to  the  obedience  of  Love — there 
was,  at  last,  a conception  beyond  human  inge- 
nuity to  conceive : f or  such  ideas  as  these  Faus- 
tula had  been  waiting  in  the  faithless  ante- 
rooms of  faith  all  her  life. 

Of  Bethlehem  Fabian  spoke  not  before  he 
spoke  of  Calvary,  but  after.  And  she  felt  it, 
as  he  felt  it,  the  more  infinite  condescension. 
Calvary  could  have  stood  alone.  For  the 
sheer  purpose  of  Redemption  the  Death  of 
the  God-Man  needed  not  the  lowly  preface  of 
human  birth.  The  first  Adam  had  no  child- 
hood, but  stood  up  near  the  tree  of  ruin  a com- 
plete man,  the  Second  Adam  came  step  by 
step  to  His  tree  of  reconciliation  by  all  the 
slow  humility  of  dumb  babyhood,  childhood, 
boyhood,  and  youth.  Even  redemption  was 
not  enough : God  and  Man  must  be  identified 
in  every  phase  of  human  life:  so  that  man 
could  never  say  “God  was  never  this.  This 
cross  I bear  alone.”  To  us,  who  learned  the 
story  before  its  august  mystery  could  strike 
us  fully,  it  is  hard  to  feel  what  Faustula  felt* 


FAUSTULA 


305 


It  has  been  part  of  ourselves  before  we  know 
what  we  ourselves  are. 

We  have  been  told  of  God’s  greatness  long 
before  we  know  our  own  littleness. 

To  Faustula  the  windy  stable  at  Bethlehem, 
the  house  at  Nazareth,  where  God  was  least  of 
the  three  who  made  the  lowly  family,  4 4 sub  - 
jectus  parentibus  ejus,”  were  conceptions  so 
stupendous  that  she  listened  breathless,  almost 
aghast. 

What  could  any  man  do  for  such  a God? 

And  then  Fabian  told  her  of  the  last  un- 
imaginable proof  of  God’s  binding  Himself 
in  the  chains  of  the  love  of  man.  As  if  Beth- 
lehem the  first  House  of  Bread  were  not 
enough,  where  the  Godhead  was  hidden  in  the 
brief  silence  of  a baby  manhood,  the  second 
House  of  Bread,  wherein  God  and  Man  alike 
were  to  be  shrouded  in  the  dumb  whiteness  of 
the  Eucharist,  silent  for  all  time. 

4 4 Could  any  man  have  invented  it?”  Fabian 
asked.  44If  so  say  that  it  is  man’s  imagina- 
tion : and  tell  us  that  we  adore  a fancy  of  some 
man’s.” 

At  last  Faustula  had  met  her  master:  the 
only  master  such  a soul  as  hers  could  confess. 
And  in  the  moment  she  knew  that  she  was  con- 
quered, she  knew  that  she  was  happy  and  that 
she  was  free. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 


Twelve  days  after  Claudia  and  Faustula 
arrived  at  the  Villa  of  the  Silva  Lauren- 
tina,  the  former  showed  unmistakeable  signs 
of  being  ill,  and  by  the  evening  it  was  evident 
that  she  was  suffering  from  a sharp  attack  of 
malaria.  In  the  afternoon  Faustula  had  seen 
Fabian,  but  had  only  stayed  a few  minutes 
with  him,  being  anxious  to  return  quickly  to 
her  friend.  He  promised  to  ride  back  at  once 
to  Ostia  and  send  a doctor;  and  before  supper- 
time the  doctor  arrived.  He  said  that  it  was 
undoubtedly  a severe  case  of  marsh-fever,  and 
that  the  patient  would  be  better  in  Rome,  but 
that  he  did  not  think  it  would  be  possible  for 
her  to  make  the  journey  in  her  present  con- 
dition. She  and  Faustula  were  supposed  to 
return  to  the  Atrium  on  the  day  but  one  fol- 
lowing ; but  of  Claudia’s  doing  so  then  the  doc- 
tor saw  no  possibility. 

Faustula  wrote  and  reported  matters  to  the 
Vestalis  Maxima  and  sent  her  letter  by  a 
mounted  messenger  who  would  easily  ride  the 
sixteen  miles  in  less  than  two  hours.  In  the 
middle  of  the  night  he  returned  with  a note 
from  Tacita,  saying  that  Claudia  must  stay 

306 


FAUSTULA 


007 


where  she  was  till  the  doctor  thought  it  safe 
for  her  to  come,  and  that  Faustula  might  re- 
main and  attend  to  her.  In  the  morning  she 
would  send  a clever  physician  from  Rome. 

He  arrived  two  hours  before  noon  and 
found  Claudia  worse,  but  comforted  Faustula 
by  declaring  that  he  perceived  nothing  danger- 
ous in  the  illness. 

“For  the  poor  and  ill-fed,  it  is  dangerous,” 
he  said;  “and  for  those  who  are  ill-housed. 
But  this  large  villa  should  be  healthy.  All  the 
same  it  was  not  the  place  to  come  to  in  Septem- 
ber. From  July  to  October  is  the  worst  sea- 
son for  this  fever:  and  there  are  marshes  too 
near  you.  After  sunset  it  must  be  very  haz- 
ardous to  be  out  of  doors  here,  and  you  tell 
me  that  the  Lady  Vestal  Claudia  often  stayed 
out  visiting  the  peasants  till  late.  You  must 
not  do  that  or  you  will  be  ill  too.” 

He  was  a comfortable,  elderly  person,  and 
gave  F austula  sensible  directions  as  to  nursing, 
which  he  saw  she  would  carry  out. 

He  went  away  promising  to  return  on  the 
morrow,  and  saying  that  it  was  well  Claudia 
had  not  been  allowed  to  attempt  to  make  the 
journey  to  Rome  as  she  was.  On  his  second 
visit  he  found  her  neither  worse  nor  better,  on 
his  third  she  was  slightly  improved. 

“In  a week  if  she  goes  on  as  well  as  I think 


308 


FAUSTULA 


probable,  we  can  take  her  back  to  Rome,”  he 
said.  “It  is  only  a pity  the  Atrium  Vestas  is 
so  confined.  But  it  was  more  a pity  she  ever 
came  here.  In  winter  it  would  be  very  well; 
but  then  no  one  wants  to  be  in  the  country  in 
winter.” 

“We  were  delighted  to  come  here,”  Faus- 
tula  told  him,  “and  this  place  must  be  thought 
healthy,  or  why  should  the  Emperor  Corn- 
modus  have  built  a villa  here?” 

“Perhaps  the  Emperor  was  not  thinking  al- 
together of  his  health.  The  Emperors  of  his 
sort  had  all  kinds  of  reasons  for  liking  to  be 
away  from  the  eyes  and  tongues  of  the  Ro- 
mans. And  perhaps  those  who  recommended 
this  air  cared  more  for  the  health  of  the  State 
than  the  health  of  its  head.” 

The  doctor  rubbed  his  hands  and  smiled 
pleasantly,  evidently  enjoying  his  own  malice. 

“I  know  your  family,”  he  told  Faustula. 
“Your  sister  is  my  patient  when  she  is  ill — 
which  is  very  seldom.  She  is  not  married  yet  ? 
We  expected  some  years  ago  she  would  have 
married  C.  Lucilius,  but  we  were  mistaken, 
and  afterwards  he  married  his  cousin — not 
nearly  so  beautiful  a girl  as  your  sister.” 

The  doctor  paused  to  give  Faustula  an  op- 
portunity of  saying  something,  but  she  was  not, 
like  him,  a gossip,  and  had  nothing  to  ask  or 


FAUSTULA 


309 


to  tell.  Of  anything  that  might  have  been 
happening  in  her  own  family  she  was  quite 
ignorant,  and  she  did  not,  at  all  events,  care  to 
learn  from  this  stranger.  So  he  chatted  on, 
smiled,  and  gave  useful  practical  directions, 
rubbed  his  hands  and  finally  went  away.  At 
the  end  of  a week  he  pronounced  it  safe  for 
Claudia  to  return  to  Rome,  and  the  two  Ves- 
tals went  back  to  the  Atrium  where  Tacita  wel- 
comed them  effusively. 

“I  am  delighted  to  see  you,”  she  declared, 
“though  I fear  you  have  come  before  it  was 
prudent.  The  jolting  of  the  journey  has  been 
too  much  for  you,  Claudia.  You  look  half- 
dead.  And  Faustula,  you  have  worn  yourself 
out  with  nursing — anyone  would  say  you  were 
thirty:  and  your  eyes!  You  are  all  eyes,  and 
they  always  were  too  big  for  your  face.  Now 
they  are  like  two  pits  with  black  water  at  the 
bottom.  No  wonder  you  have  been  anxious 
— I have  been  too  anxious  to  sleep.  You  got 
all  my  letters?  I wrote  every  day  and  made 
the  physician  take  my  letters ; also  I made  him 
come  here  and  give  his  report  on  his  return. 
He  thought  my  fears  quite  ridiculous — he  was 
inclined  to  make  light  of  Claudia’s  illness ; but 
I let  him  see  that  I chose  to  be  anxious,  and 
that  I could  not  permit  the  illness  of  a Vestal 
to  be  regarded  as  trifling.  ‘A  Vestal,  next  in 


310 


FAUSTULA 


succession  to  myself,’  I told  him,  ‘is  not  a com- 
mon case.  There  are  not  a thousand  Vestals.’ 
I told  him  that.” 

After  Claudia  was  recovered  from  the 
fatigue  of  her  short  journey  she  made  her  re- 
port about  the  estate  at  Turris  Laurentina,  and 
Tacita  promised  that  something  should  be  done 
for  the  better  housing  of  the  peasant-slaves. 

“It  shall  be  all  in  your  hands,”  she  said,  with 
many  nods  and  smiles.  “The  doctor  says  that 
in  winter  and  spring  the  sea-air  at  Turris 
Laurentina  is  quite  healthy:  when  the  healthy 
season  comes  you  and  Faustula  may  go  back  if 
you  like — and  you  shall  see  to  the  carrying  out 
of  these  improvements  yourself : you  will  like 
that?” 

But  public  affairs  were  assuming  an  interest 
that  soon  took  off  some  of  Tacita’s  attention 
from  the  inner  politics  of  the  Atrium.  Things 
were  happening  that  concerned  the  Vestals  and 
the  whole  Roman  world  as  well,  and  the  Ves- 
talis  Maxima  had  gossip  to  hear  that  became 
history  afterwards.  Within  the  next  few 
months  the  course  of  events  changed  the  posi- 
tion in  the  Empire  of  the  Vestals  themselves, 
and  of  the  two  religious  systems  that  had  so 
long  been  rivals  in  it. 

From  the  time  that  Constantine  the  Great 
became  sole  Emperor,  the  Christian  faith  had 


FAUSTULA 


311 


been  rapidly  assuming  the  dominant  position, 
and  the  worship  of  the  gods  had  been  steadily 
falling  into  a state  of  moribund  toleration. 
Faustulus  was  not  the  only  person  to  whom 
the  idea  had  occurred  that  the  College  of  Ves- 
tals would  be  suppressed  before  long.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  it  was  suppressed  in  about  a 
quarter  of  a century  from  this  very  time,  but 
much  was  to  happen  before  its  extinction. 

At  this  moment  tilings  were  happening  that 
seemed  to  portend  another  exchange  of  posi- 
tions between  Paganism  and  Christianity. 
There  were  now  only  two  princes  of  the  Im- 
perial House.  The  Emperor  had  no  son,  and 
his  cousin  had  lately  risen  into  prominence  and 
importance.  There  were  many  who  foretold 
his  speedy  advent  to  supreme  power,  and  his 
sympathies  were  widely  known  to  be  adverse 
to  the  Church. 

Flavius  Claudius  Julianus,  son  of  Julius 
Constantius,  half-brother  of  Constantine  the 
the  Great,  was  now  ruling  Gaul  with  the  rank 
of  Caesar,  and  none  who  knew  him  well  believed 
that  he  would  be  only  Caesar  long.  Gaul  was 
far  from  Constantinople,  and  Julian  there  felt 
himself  out  of  reach,  if  not  of  the  suspicion, 
of  the  revenge  of  his  cousin  Constantius.  He 
made  it  his  business  not  merely  to  rule  his 
province  for  the  Emperor,  but  to  endear  him- 


312 


FAUSTULA 


self  to  the  provincials,  and  to  his  troops:  and 
this  he  did  with  plausible,  philosophic  mildness. 
Only  a stupid  prince  lets  himself  be  unpopular 
and  Julian  was  anything  but  stupid.  He  was 
shrewd  and  patient,  and  had  the  gift,  rarer 
than  brilliant  speech,  of  knowing  precisely  how 
to  hold  his  tongue.  Wise  words  command 
themselves  to  wise  ears,  and  the  greater  part  of 
those  who  have  to  listen  are  seldom  wise. 

In  a great  empire  there  are  likely  to  be  many 
and  great  abuses.  David’s  false  son  knew  how 
to  make  profit  of  them  in  a realm  not  so  great 
that  they  need  have  been  very  numerous.  And 
Julian  was  a cleverer  man  by  far  than  Absolom, 
and  had  a more  bitter  grievance  of  his  own. 
To  the  aggrieved  the  aggrieved  draw  by  a nat- 
ural magnetism,  and  your  most  dangerous  rebel 
is  a man  who  smarts  himself.  It  gives  him  the 
sincerity  without  which  he  would  be  innocu- 
ous. 

Julian,  haughty  and  sad,  knew  how  to  seem 
sad  and  humble:  sorrowful  depression  of  con- 
dition in  a prince  of  a proud  house  is  a magnet 
to  the  discontented:  it  puts  a sword  that  looks 
like  loyalty  into  the  hands  of  those  who  want 
to  be  disloyal — to  right  him , they  cry  aloud,  is 
their  object,  not  to  gain  anything  selfish  on 
their  own  account.  He  accepts  the  sword,  with 
much  asseveration  that  for  them  only  would  he 


FAUSTULA  313 

wield  it,  since  his  own  grievance  is  a mere  per- 
sonal matter. 

Julian’s  grievance  was  of  life-long  standing, 
and  had  been  kept  alive  by  events  of  not  dis- 
tant date.  When  Constantine  died  he  was  a 
child  of  six,  who  had  never  known  the  love  of 
a mother,,  His  father  was  now  killed,  and  his 
father’s  brother  Dalmatius,  his  own  eldest 
brother,  and  the  two  sons  of  his  uncle.  The 
instigator  of  these  murders  was  supposed  to 
be  Constantius,  who  spared  himself  and  his 
brother  Gallus  only  because  they  were  too 
young  and  insignificant  to  be  dangerous. 

Those  who  desire  excuse  for  hatred  of  a 
religion  or  of  a system  can  usually  find  it  in  the 
faults  of  those  who  belong  to  it;  and  Julian’s 
observations  were  made  in  the  Court  of  Con- 
stantinople where  such  faults  have  seldom  been 
conspicuously  absent,  or  else  from  the  gloomy 
exile  of  his  castle-prison  at  Macellum.  He  had 
probably  definitely  abandoned  Christianity  by 
the  time  he  was  twenty.  Three  years  later  he 
was  still  further  embittered,  as  well  as  alarmed 
for  his  own  safety,  by  the  execution  of  his  re- 
maining brother  Gallus.  After  his  brothers 
were  dead  Constantius  had  made  Gallus  Csesar, 
but  had  found  him  guilty  of  conspiracy  and 
had  him  beheaded  in  a.  d.  354.  Julian’s  own 
head  was  in  danger  and  might  have  fallen  but 


314 


FAUSTULA 


for  the  friendly  intervention  of  the  Empress. 
From  his  prison  at  Milan  he  was  allowed  to  go 
to  Athens,  and  from  his  studies  there  was  re- 
called to  Milan  in  November  355  to  marry  the 
Emperor’s  sister,  Helena,  and  receive  from  him 
the  rank  of  Cassar  and  the  Province  of  Gaul. 

His  position  now  became  important,  and  the 
next  five  years  were  spent  in  almost  inde- 
pendent military  and  political  work  in  which 
he  showed  himself  shrewd  and  able.  He 
gained  the  provincials  by  easing  their  burdens, 
and  the  soldiers  by  his  military  success. 
When,  in  April  360,  the  Emperor  sent  a de- 
mand for  some  of  his  best  troops  to  serve 
against  the  Persians,  the  reply  was  the  procla- 
mation of  Julian  as  Augustus  by  those  troops 
themselves. 

The  report  of  such  news  as  these  gave  Tacita 
plenty  to  think  of,  at  all  events  it  gave  her  a 
great  deal  to  say.  She  thought  it  her  duty  at 
this  time  to  run  about  continually,  that  is,  to 
be  carried  in  her  litter  first  to  one  great  pagan 
house  and  thence  to  another,  returning  to  the 
Atrium  with  a singular  jumble  of  news,  and 
pathetic  complaints  of  fatigue. 

“I  am  worn  out,”  she  would  protest.  “Quite 
worn  out.  Nothing  tires  me  like  going  about. 
I am  one  of  those  who  would  never  leave  the 
Atrium  if  I could  help  it.  But  in  this  crisis  it 


FAUSTULA 


315 


is  a duty  to  be  well-informed,  an  obligation  not 
to  be  ignored  in  my  position.  The  Virgo  Ves- 
talis  Maxima  is  one  of  the  great  personages 
of  the  State.  Events  of  the  highest  impor- 
tance occur  every  day,  and  one  must  be  cor- 
rectly informed.  The  Emperor  Julian/’ 
Tacita  was  one  of  the  first  to  give  him  that 
title  in  Rome,  “The  Emperor  Julian  has  left 
Gaul — or  he  was  about  to  leave  it  when  the 
last  courier  from  the  Court  set  out ” 

When  she  spoke  of  the  Court  the  Vestals 
knew  that  she  did  not  mean  Nicomedia,  or  the 
camp  of  Constantius,  but  Paris,  or  the  camp 
of  the  Cassar  Julian. 

“Constantius  has  left  his  war  against  the 
Persians  to  look  after  itself.  He  is  marching 
to  meet  the  Emperor,  and  nobody  knows  where 
he  is — some  say  in  Cilicia.  It  does  not  mat- 
ter much — he  is  finished.  Our  Emperor  will 
crush  him  like  an  egg-shell.  He  is  a poor  crea- 
ture : even  the  Christians  know  that.  They  are 
not  at  all  fond  of  him.  He  is  cross  and  sullen, 
and  interferes  in  their  religious  quibbles.  I 
understand  he  favours  those  who  hold  that 
Christ  was  an  Arian,  and  everyone  knows  he 
exiled  the  pope — that  was  no  harm,  but  those 
who  take  the  pope’s  part  are  angry  with  Con- 
stantius. The  Emperor  Julian  confesses  him- 
self a worshipper  of  the  gods — publicly.  At 


316 


FAUSTULA 


least  if  he  has  not  done  so  officially,  as  some 
say,  he  is  on  the  point  of  it.  There  is  no  doubt 
of  his  opinion — he  has  adored  the  gods  in  secret 
for  ten  years,  and  princes’  secrets  are  always 
known.  He  was  annoyed  by  his  f ather’s  execu- 
tion, and  knew  that  he  was  to  be  beheaded  him- 
self, only  the  Empress  Euselia  interfered:  it 
appears  she  is  writing  a history  of  the  Christian 
Church,  and  thought  too  many  executions  in 
the  Imperial  family  would  not  sound  well. 
There  won’t  be  much  more  for  her  to  write. 
This  pope  will  be  the  last.  As  soon  as  the  Em- 
peror has  crushed  Constantius  he  will  restore 
the  worship  of  the  gods:  the  Christian  super- 
stition will  be  again  proclaimed  illicita,  and  the 
churches  will  all  be  destroyed.  Claudius 
Domitius  tells  me  he  intends  to  propose  that 
the  Circus  of  Nero  should  be  restored — you 
know  he  pretends  to  belong  to  the  family  of 
the  Twelve  Caesars.  His  idea  is  to  convert  all 
the  Vatican  into  public  gardens  and  have  an 
enormous  circus  covering  all  the  present  site  of 
the  fisherman’s  tomb.  I can  see  he  intends  to 
be  City  Prsefect,  but  my  brother  says  that  is  all 
nonsense,  and  that  our  own  family  will  be  more 
prominent.  I never  talk  of  my  family;  but 
we  shall  see.  Anyway  the  Emperor  Julian  will 
be  Pontifex  Maximus,  and  we  shall  be  under 
his  immediate  protection.  I cannot  think. 


FAUSTULA 


317 


really  I cannot  think,  what  I have  done  to  de- 
serve at  the  hands  of  the  gods  that  I should  be 
Vestalis  Maxima  at  the  moment  of  such  a 
happy  restoration  of  religion.” 

“Never  mind,”  observed  the  ex-Maxima  Vo- 
lumina,  “you  are  fatigued;  do  not  tire  yourself 
by  trying  to  find  out  reasons  which  must  re- 
main a mystery.” 

“No,”  Tacita  agreed  sharply.  “It  is  enough 
that  the  gods  have  willed  it  so.  They  are  wiser 
than  us.” 

“Truly.  Their  wisdom,”  said  Volumina,  “is 
inscrutable.” 

“Of  course  ...  I shall  be,  officially,  the 
Emperor’s  daughter,  and  you.  . . ,” 

“His  granddaughter,”  suggested  Faustula. 

“Oh  well!  I don’t  know.  I am  not  quite 
old  enough  to  be  your  mother,”  Tacita  re- 
marked, nodding  and  smiling. 

“These  relationships,”  Volumina  reminded 
her,  “are  merely  official.  The  Emperor  Julian 
is  several  years  your  junior  himself.” 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 


As  the  Atrium  Vestae  was  in  the  crowded 
Forum,  it  could  have  no  garden,  and  the 
Vestals  were  not  supposed  to  walk  in  the  city, 
except  to  fetch  water  from  the  fountain  of 
Egeria  by  the  Porta  Capena:  but  for  a long 
time  they  had  been  accustomed  to  take  exercise 
in  a garden  and  vineyard  belonging  to  them, 
of  which  the  sacred  enclosure  of  the  Camense, 
where  Egeria’s  fountain  was  situated,  formed 
a part.  It  was  outside  the  old  wall  of  Servius 
Tullius  and  the  Capua  Gate,  but  within  the 
Porta  Appia  and  the  Aurelian  wall,  by  which 
latter  it  was  bounded  at  one  end. 

Thither  a Vestal  might  be  carried  in  her  lit- 
ter, and  there  she  would  alight  and  walk  about. 
Faustula  liked  the  place  because  it  was  quiet, 
and  she  fancied  that  there  she  could  smell  the 
wind  from  the  hills. 

One  day  she  was  strolling  alone  in  the  part 
of  the  vineyard  farthest  from  the  entrance 
where  she  had  left  her  bearers,  and  her  lictor, 
with  the  other  slaves.  Tacita  had  declared  that 
now  the  Vestals  ought  to  use  the  privilege  of 
being  escorted  by  a lictor  less  sparingly  than 
had  been  latterly  the  case.  Christian  wits  had 

318 


FAUSTULA 


319 


been  inclined,  she  had  heard,  to  make  fun  of 
the  Vestals  and  their  lictors,  “but  now  we  shall 
see  who  has  most  to  laugh  at.” 

As  Faustula  sauntered  down  a long  straight 
walk  she  passed  a gardener  stooping  over  his 
work.  When  she  had  turned  the  corner  into  a 
narrower  path  she  heard  footsteps  behind,  and, 
looking  round,  saw  that  the  man  had  followed 
her. 

Supposing  that  he  might  have  some  petition 
to  make,  she  stood  still  and  let  him  overtake 
her. 

“The  Lady  Vestal  Faustula,  is  it  not?”  he 
asked,  saluting,  as  he  came  up. 

“ Y es.  Do  you  want  me  ?” 

“You  do  not  remember  me?  I was  once  a 
slave  of  the  Lady  Melania  of  the  Acilii  Gla- 
briones  at  Civitella.  I am  now  freedman  of 
the  Most  Illustrious  Fabian  Acilius  Glabrio. 
My  name  is  Sergius — I was  given  my  freedom 
while  you  were  staying  with  the  Lady  Me- 
lania.” 

“I  remember.  You  chose  to  remain  with 
the  lord  Fabian  as  his  attendant.” 

“Yes.  I am  his  attendant  still.” 

“I  thought  he  was  far  from  Rome ” 

“So  he  is.  He  was  ordered  to  the  north 
and  had  to  go  at  once.  He  was  very  unhappy 
because  he  had  no  means  of  communicating 


320 


FAUSTULA 


with  you  and  he  bade  me  remain  behind,  and 
for  many  weeks  I have  been  trying  to  find  an 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  you  without  risk. 
I have  this  letter  from  the  lord  Fabian. 
When  you  have  read  it  you  may  know  that 
you  can  trust  me.” 

“I  know  that  already,”  Faustula  answered 
simply.  She  had  been  watching  the  young 
man’s  face  all  the  while  he  spoke.  He  was 
almost  three  years  older  than  Fabian,  perhaps 
thirty,  and  had  a good  face,  honest  and  pleas- 
ant, though  not  handsome.  His  eyes  were 
clear  and  courageous,  grave  and  reliable. 

She  took  the  letter,  and  the  young  man  fell 
to  work,  hoeing  about  the  roots  of  the  vines; 
she  walked  on  slowly,  and  began  to  read.  The 
letter  was  dated  nearly  two  months  back,  and 
Fabian  said  in  it  that  he  knew  it  might  be  long 
before  it  reached  her  hands. 

“But,”  he  wrote,  “I  cannot  go  without  writ- 
ing. It  seems  that  you  must  think  me  cruel 
to  go  and  leave  you  without  anyone  to  help 
you.  I must  go.”  He  then  spoke  briefly  of 
the  great  public  events  that  were  taking  place. 
“The  legion  I am  ordered  to  join  is  at  Milan: 
but  it  is  to  go  north  and  perhaps  we  shall  be 
told  to  march  eastward  along  the  Danube  to 
meet  the  Emperor.  At  present  I know  noth- 
ing except  that  we  are  to  proceed  at  once  to 


FAUSTULA 


321 


Milan.  The  man  who  will  give  you  this, 
though  I know  not  how,  is  my  freedman  Ser- 
gius. You  may  trust  him.  I leave  him  in 
my  place.  But  what  he  can  do  I know  no 
more  than  what  I could  do  myself  if  I were 
able  to  stay.  I think  you  mean  to  be  a 
Christian:  but  you  have  not  said  so.  If  you 
do  not,  forgive  me  for  saying  it.  The  last 
day  we  talked  together,  on  the  Latin  shore,  I 
thought  that  I saw  in  you  a resolve  to  follow 
Christ : but  you  had  not  said  so  when  we  were 
interrupted.  I pray  you  take  great  care,  for 
that  day  I came  away  with  the  idea  that  there 
was  a spy  upon  us.  It  will  all  be  much  harder 
if  Julian  should  succeed  in  what  he  attempts, 
and  he  may  succeed,  for  Constantius,  they  say, 
has  traitors  all  around  him,  and  there  are  many 
not  traitors  who  are  indifferent  to  his  fate. 
Even  to  the  Christians  he  has  been  harsh  and 
unjust,  but  the  pagans  love  him  none  the  bet- 
ter. His  nature  is  dark  and  mistrustful,  and 
such  men  are  bad  served.  He  has  persecuted 
the  Pope,  and  some  Christians  say  that  God 
will  punish  him.  If  Julian  should  become  sole 
Emperor  all  the  work  of  Constantine  will  be 
undone,  so  far  as  Julian  can  do  it:  and  he  has, 
I hear,  great  ability.  If  the  laws  against  us 
are  revived,  our  position  will  be  full  of  danger 
and  difficulty.  I do  not  mention  this  as  if  I 


322 


FAUSTULA 


thought  it  would  make  you  afraid — supposing 
you  really  mean  to  be  a Christian : but  because 
it  will  make  it  much  harder  for  you:  and  I 
cannot  see  yet  what  you  ought  to  do — what 
you  can  do.  For  a Vestal  to  declare  herself  a 
Christian  would  be  difficult  in  any  case : but  it 
will  be  far  more  so  if  the  Head  of  the  State 
is  no  longer  a Christian.  Six  months  ago,  a 
year  ago,  it  would  not  have  been  an  easy  mat- 
ter for  a Vestal  to  walk  out  of  the  Atrium  and 
announce  herself  a Christian.  But  it  will  be 
terribly  difficult  if  the  laws  should  be  changed. 
Were  my  mother,  or  Acilia  alive,  and  things 
were  as  they  were  quite  lately,  you  could  have 
gone  to  them,  and  claimed  the  protection  of 
the  Emperor  and  of  the  law:  as  it  is  I cannot 
advise — because  I do  not  know  really  what  is 
in  your  mind.  There  are  ladies  of  high  rank 
among  us  to  whom  I might  have  spoken  about 
you:  but  I dare  not  do  so,  even  if  I had  op- 
portunity now,  before  I go,  as  I do  not  know 
that  you  mean  to  be  a Christian.  It  would  be 
a great  liberty  and  impertinence  for  me  to  do 
anything  like  that  when  I may  be  wrong.  All 
I can  say  is  this : count  on  me.  At  all  hazard, 
and  all  cost  I will  serve  you  when  I see  how 
it  can  be  done,  or  when  you  tell  me.  And 
trust  Sergius.  Any  letter  you  give  him  for 


FAUSTULA 


323 


me  I shall  get,  if  he  has  to  walk  from  Rome 
to  Milan  with  it.” 

Of  that  which  is  commonly  called  “love” 
there  was  nothing  in  the  letter,  as  there  had 
been  nothing  at  all  that  he  had  said  by  word 
of  mouth,  in  their  meetings  “on  the  Latin 
shore.”  That  he  loved  her  truly,  he  knew,  and 
had  known  for  more  than  half  his  life:  but  he 
knew  also  that  she  was  a Vestal,  and,  so  long 
as  she  remained  one,  any  word  of  human  love 
would  be  an  insult.  None  the  less  his  letter 
breathed  of  love  greater  than  any  syllables  of 
common  speech  could  put  in  words,  a love  ten- 
der, thoughtful,  unselfish,  respectful. 

When  Faustula  turned  back  she  found  Ser- 
gius still  at  work. 

“I  will  come  here,”  she  told  him,  “to-morrow 
with  an  answer.  If  not  to-morrow  on  the  day 
after.  Shall  you  be  here?” 

“Yes.  Do  you  remember  the  man  who 
drove  your  chariot  on  the  day  you  went  to  the 
Turris  Laurentina?  He  is  my  cousin,  and  a 
very  good  man.” 

“I  remember.  He  is  a Christian  . . . He 
told  me  about  St.  Paul.” 

“Yes.  I know.  He  is  a good  man;  not  all 
our  people  now  can  be  trusted.  But  you  may 
trust  him.  It  was  through  him  I got  work  here 


324 


FAUSTULA 


in  the  vineyard.  We  had  to  wait : it  would  not 
do  to  risk  too  much:  but  at  last  a slave  fell 
sick  and  my  cousin  got  me  his  place.  If  ever 
it  should  happen  that  the  slave  Dirce  is  here, 
attending  on  the  Vestalis  Maxima,  on  no  ac- 
count speak  to  me,  or  notice  me.  I shall  be 
here  to-morrow:  if  she  is  here,  even  if  you  have 
your  letter,  do  not  try  and  give  it  me.” 

After  a little  more  conversation  Faustula 
continued  her  walk,  and  read  through  her  let- 
ter again,  of  which,  of  course,  only  a part  has 
been  given  above.  Fabian  expressed  his  hope 
that  Claudia  was  getting  quite  well,  and  said 
that  the  old  priest  with  whom  she  had  often 
talked  had  made  earnest  inquiries  about  her 
health.  “He  came,”  said  Fabian,  “to  my  quar- 
ter at  Ostia  and  told  me  how  generous  she  had 
been  in  giving  him  money  for  his  poor.  He 
knew  that  the  doctor  who  attended  her  first  had 
been  sent  by  me,  and  he  thought  it  would  not 
be  wise  to  call  at  your  villa  and  inquire  for  the 
Lady  Vestal  Claudia,  lest  it  might  in  any  way 
compromise  her.  He  bade  me  pray  much  for 
her,  for  he  says  she  is  so  good  that  he  cannot 
but  hope  Our  Lord  will  bless  her  as  I hope  He 
will  bless  you.  But  I asked  him  no  questions, 
and  I do  not  know  if  they  had  any  conversation 
together  except  about  the  poor  people  and  their 
dwellings.  . . 


FAUSTULA  325 

In  another  passage  Fabian  spoke  of  his 
brother. 

“I  told  you,”  he  said,  “that  he  was  quartered 
at  Arretium,  but  since  we  have  last  met  I have 
heard  from  him,  and  he  had  just  received  or- 
ders with  his  cohort  to  march  to  Mediolanum, 
like  ourselves  here.  No  one  knows  yet  what 
we  are  to  do  when  we  get  there : some  think  we 
are  to  try  and  intercept  Julian  if  he  attempts 
to  leave  Gaul,  others  that  we  are  to  march  to 
a meeting  with  the  Emperor,  who  is  not  yet 
even  in  Europe,  but  must  be  hastening  to  Con- 
stantinople. At  all  events  Christopher  will  be 
as  far  away  as  I shall  be,  and  can  be,  alas,  of 
no  use  to  you.” 


CHAPTER  XXXV 


The  meeting,  described  above,  between 
Faustula  and  Sergius,  happened  nearly 
three  months  after  she  had  last  seen  Fabian. 
She  had  already  heard  that  the  cohort  to  which 
he  belonged  had  been  ordered  to  Milan.  The 
conversation,  recorded  in  the  previous  chapter, 
in  which  Tacita  had  expressed  such  rosy  hopes 
of  the  speedy  downfall  of  Christianity  took 
place  several  months  later. 

The  events  of  the  rest  of  that  year  were  not 
such  as  to  depress  her  hopes.  Word  of  the 
death  of  Constantine  at  Mompsocrene  in  Ci- 
licia, and  of  Julian’s  accession  to  sole  power  ar- 
rived almost  simultaneously  with  that  of  the 
new  Emperor’s  public  repudiation  of  Chris- 
tianity. Still  it  was  not  clearly  known  what 
line  of  policy  Julian  really  meant  to  follow. 
On  the  other  hand  it  was  maintained  that  he 
had  no  intention  of  persecuting  the  Christians, 
or  even  of  attempting  a violent  reversal  of  Con- 
stantine’s settlement  in  religion:  but  that  he 
would  pursue  a policy  of  chill  toleration. 
Even  those  who  held  this  view,  and  they  seemed 
the  best  informed,  declared  that  the  whole  po- 
sition of  the  Church  would  be  altered  and  de- 

326 


FAUSTULA 


327 


pressed.  All  favour  would  be  for  the  ancient 
heathen  religion  of  the  State,  and  its  professors. 
Matters  would  be  so  arranged  that  not  only  ad- 
vancement in  state  or  army,  but  even  the 
continued  tenure  of  office  in  either,  would  be 
made  difficult  or  impossible.  And  the  first 
proof  of  this  which  they  pointed  out  was  the 
alteration  of  the  Imperial  Standards.  They 
were  now  so  contrived  as  to  combine  in  one  sym- 
bol the  emblems  of  Paganism  and  of  the  Im- 
perial dignity,  so  that  those  who  were  called 
upon  to  do  homage  to  the  latter  would  perforce 
be  made  to  venerate  the  former. 

“How  clever  the  Emperor  is!”  Tacita  ex- 
claimed with  rapture,  when  she  retailed  these 
news  to  her  Vestals,  “fie  knows  what  he  is 
about.  It  is  a test,  and  the  Christians  are  so 
superstitious  and  so  obstinate  they  will  never 
submit.  In  the  old  days  they  were  merely  re- 
quired to  drop  one  grain  of  incense  on  the  altars 
before  a Jupiter  no  bigger  than  my  hand,  and 
they  would  not.  It  will  be  the  same  now:  the 
whole  army  must  do  homage  to  the  standards, 
and  drop  incense  on  the  altars  before  them. 
The  Christians  won’t  do  it,  and  they  will  all 
be  punished  as  rebels.  I am  glad  I have  no 
connexions  among  them.  In  some  families 
there  have  been  inter-marriages  ajid  conversions 
lately.  Our  family  is  quite  untainted.” 


328 


FAUSTULA 


On  the  other  hand  there  were  many,  and  per- 
haps the  majority,  who  stoutly  affirmed  that 
Julian  would  not  stop  at  half  measures.  That 
he  intended  nothing  less  than  the  triumphant 
restoration  of  Paganism ; that  he  would  in  fact 
persecute  while  professing  toleration,  justify- 
ing himself  by  forcing  the  Christians  into  the 
position  of  rebels.  It  would  not,  they  showed, 
be  difficult  for  so  subtle  and  astute  an  Emperor 
to  order  matters  in  a fashion  that  would  compel 
the  Christians  to  appear  in  the  light  of  recal- 
citrants against  Imperial  authority.  He  was  a 
young  man,  but  just  over  thirty,  and  would 
have  a long  reign.  He  need  not  hurry,  but  he 
would  bring  about  the  complete  change  he  de- 
sired by  means  that  would  appear  gradual  and 
moderate. 

Those  who  held  either  opinion  were  not  all 
Christians  or  all  Pagans.  No  one,  on  either 
side,  had  full  knowledge;  and  what  no  one  on 
either  side  did  know,  was  what  precisely  Julian 
believed  himself.  People  of  Tacita’s  sort  took 
it  for  granted  that  he  was  simply  a devout  wor- 
shipper of  all  the  ancient  gods:  others  pro- 
fessed to  have  knowledge  that  he  cared  very 
little  for  Jupiter  or  Venus,  Juno  or  Mars,  but 
that  he  had  picked  up  at  Athens,  among  the 
rhetoricians,  a hotch-potch  of  modern  Greek 
philosophy  which  gave  a new  interpretation  to 


FAUSTULA 


329 


the  old  beliefs  concerning  the  gods.  Tacita 
scoffed  at  this  and  declared  that  it  was  mere 
gossip. 

“ There  will  always  be  gossip  about  great 
people,”  she  said.  “It  does  not  matter.  If  the 
Emperor  has  been  used  to  hear  Jupiter  called 
Zeus,  and  Venus  called  Aphrodite  what  differ- 
ence does  it  make?  He  is  on  our  side.  That 
is  the  great  thing.  He  hates  the  Galilean; 
everybody  knows  that.” 

So  far  Tacita  was  right,  and  it  was  pretty 
confidently  assumed  in  Rome  that  where  a law 
could  be  twisted  against  a Christian  it  might  be 
so  twisted  with  impunity. 

That  there  was  not  much  persecution  in 
Rome  during  a reign  that  lasted  less  than  two 
years  is  not  very  surprising : it  is  rather  surpris- 
ing that  there  should  have  been  time,  for  any. 
A condition  of  things  that  has  lasted  half  a cen- 
tury is  not  easily  altered  in  less  than  half  fifty 
months ; that  it  was  altered  is  pretty  clear  proof 
that  those  who  took  active  part  against  the 
Christians  felt  secure  of  the  Emperor’s  ap- 
proval. That  the  City  Prefect  was  a pagan, 
and  a hJter  of  the  Christians  was  known  to  all, 
and  proved  by  the  martyrdom  of  St.  John  and 
St.  Paul. 

“You  see  how  right  I was,”  Tacita  begged 
the  Vestals  to  remember,  “the  Christians  are 


830 


FAUSTULA 


just  as  obdurate  and  stupid  as  I said  they  would 
be.  The  brothers  John  and  Paul,  who  live  in 
that  old  house  on  the  Clivus  Scauri — I know 
them  by  sight.  They  are  of  good  family  and  I 
have  a cousin  whose  palace  is  not  far  from  their 
ramshackle  dwelling — she  tells  me  they  were 
favourites  of  the  princess  Constantia,  daughter 
of  the  unhappy  Constantine,  and  cousin  of  our 
present  glorious  Emperor.  Yes : I know  what 
I was  going  to  say.  The  Emperor,  hearing 
this,  was  so  good  as  to  send  them  an  offer  to 
enter  his  service.  And  they  had  the  insolence 
to  refuse — and  with  a very  pert  message. 
‘They  did  not  care,’  they  said,  ‘to  become 
servants  of  one  who  had  derided  their  mas- 
ter.’ That,  it  seems,  was  sometime  ago,  for 
word  has  now  come  that  they  are  to  enter 
the  Emperor’s  household  within  ten  days,  and 
sacrifice  to  Jupiter,  or  receive  the  penalty  of 
death  for  their  flagrant  treason.  Teren- 
tianus,  praefect  of  the  Praetorian  Cohort,  is  to 
carry  a little  statue  of  the  god  to  their  house, 
quite  privately  so  as  to  spare  their  pride,  and 
call  upon  them  to  venerate  it.  But  my 
cousin,  whose  palace  is  not  a stone’s  throw 
from  their  house,  and  knows  all  about  it,  as- 
sures me  that  they  will  be  obdurate.” 

Tacita  looked  round  for  applause  and  as  she 


FAUSTULA  331 

Caught  Faustula’s  eye  that  Vestal  spoke  for 
the  rest. 

“No  doubt  your  cousin  is  right.” 

“Yes.  I have  no  doubt  she  will  be  right. 
My  cousin  is  a very  clever  woman.  We  are 
much  alike  in  mind — but  she  is  years  older 
than  me,  and  was  never  handsome.  She  tells 
me  these  besotted  men  are  hurriedly  giving 
away  all  their  goods  to  the  poor — instead  of 
making  a reasonable  will.  They  are  quite  in- 
fatuated. My  cousin,  who  is  a most  original 
woman,  says  that  those  whom  the  gods  will 
destroy  they  first  deprive  of  sense.” 

“I  have  heard  that  said,”  Volumina  re- 
marked. “One  usually  has  heard  those  clever, 
original  things  before.  It  is  very  true,  but 
it  hardly  goes  far  enough,  for  many  whom  the 
gods  favour  have  never  had  much  sense  to  be 
deprived  of.” 

About  eleven  days  later  Tacita  was  in  a 
position  to  adduce  fuller  proof  of  the  ob- 
stinate folly  of  Christians. 

“Those  men  I was  telling  you  all  about,” 
she  said,  “the  brothers  Paul  and  John,  who 
inhabit  the  old  ramshackle  mansion  on  the 
Clivus  Scauri  near  my  cousin  Juba’s  palace 
— it  is  just  as  I foretold.  When  their  ten 
days  of  grace  were  over,  the  Prsetorian  Pre- 
fect Terentianus,  went  to  them  with  a small 


382 


FAUSTULA 


statue  of  Jupiter,  and  read  them  the  Em- 
peror’s mandate  again,  calling  on  them  to 
adore  the  god  unless  they  wished  to  die  for 
their  treason.  They  would  hardly  listen  hut 
went  on  praying  to  their  own  god — and,  when 
the  Prsefect  had  done  speaking,  had  the 
temerity  to  say  that  for  the  faith  of  Christ 
whom  they  adored  as  God  with  mind  and 
mouth  they  were  without  doubt  ready  to  un- 
dergo death.  The  Prsefect  treated  them  with 
great  consideration,  for  instead  of  putting 
them  to  the  shame  of  a public  execution,  they 
were  quietly  beheaded  in  their  own  house.” 

“That  was  wise  as  well  as  kind,”  Volumina 
observed.  “A  public  execution  might  have 
caused  a popular  tumult.” 

“Yes.  And  he  had  them  buried  at  home 
too,  and  let  it  be  rumored  that  they  had  merely 
been  exiled.” 

Some  days  later  still  Tacita  had  more  to  re- 
port on  the  subject. 

“Those  wretched  Christians,”  she  exclaimed 
on  returning  to  the  Atrium  from  one  of  her 
foraying  excursions  in  quest  of  news.  “What 
lies  they  have  recourse  to!  There  is  a bug-a- 
boo  tale  set  about  them  that,  since  John  and 
Paul  were  punished  for  their  insolent  trea- 
son, certain  evil  spirits  have  been  let  loose  that 
have  been  vexing  all  sorts  of  people.  Of 


FAUSTULA 


333 


course  they  pretend  that  Terentianus  and  his 
family  have  suffered  most:  especially  a son  of 
the  Prsefect’s;  and  they  have  trumped  up  this 
preposterous  story — that  Terentianus  led  his 
son,  all  raving  and  possessed,  to  the  place  where 
the  ‘martyrs’  lie  secretly  buried  under  their 
house  and  that  there  the  lad  was  freed  from 
the  demon,  whereupon  he  and  the  Prsefect 
himself  both  announced  themselves  Chris- 
tians.” 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 


Thus,  roughly  and  briefly,  we  have  tried 
to  give  some  slight  hints  of  the  condi- 
tion of  things  in  Rome  at  a time  when  the 
state  of  public  affairs  affected  Faustula  so 
greatly.  But  this  is  not  an  historical  novel, 
and  none  of  the  personages  of  our  tale  played 
historic  parts,  or  were  known  to  history. 
Public  events  only  concern  us  as  they  pro- 
duced results  in  which  our  characters  were  en- 
tangled. 

Faustula  could  do  nothing.  At  rare  and 
long  intervals  she  heard  from  Fabian,  by 
means  of  Sergius,  but  he  could  only  bid  her 
wait,  and  tell  her  how  earnestly  he  would  do 
all  in  his  power  to  return  to  Rome  whenever 
duty  would  allow  it.  For  a long  time  she 
had  not  even  had  any  letter  from  him,  and  Ser- 
gius himself  had  received  none. 

All  her  life  she  had  been  lonely,  but  during 
the  months  that  followed  her  brief  intercourse 
with  Fabian  at  Turris  Laurentina  her  loneli- 
ness was  more  desolate  and  complete  than  ever. 
Of  her  own  family  she  saw  nothing,  and  to 
Claudia  she  could  not  speak  of  what  was  in 
her  mind,  Tacita’s  reign  was  drawing  to  its 

334 


FAUSTULA 


335 


close  and  Claudia  would  herself  become  Ves- 
talis  Maxima.  Claudia  was  more  silent  with 
Faustula  than  of  old,  and  did  not  seem  to 
court  occasions  of  confidential  intercourse. 
And  how  could  Faustula  confide  in  her? 
Even  of  a general  sympathy  for  the  Chris- 
tians in  their  present  troubles  she  durst  not 
speak  to  one  who  would,  in  a f ew  short  months, 
be  Head  of  the  College  of  Vestals. 

Faustula  was  often  called  upon,  more  or 
less  directly,  by  Tacita,  to  express  her  satis- 
faction at  those  very  troubles,  and  her  cold- 
ness in  the  matter  was  more  shrewdly  noted 
than  she  perceived. 

Towards  the  end  of  May  in  the  year  362 
Tacita  became  full  of  a great  exhibition  of 
games  that  was  to  be  held  in  the  Coliseum, 
and  could  talk  of  nothing  else.  The  Vestals 
were  to  attend  in  state,  and  she  hardly  knew 
whether  most  to  deplore  the  Emperor’s  ab- 
sence aloud,  or  secretly  to  rejoice  in  the  fact 
that  his  absence  would  add  to  the  dignity  of 
her  own  position.  So  far  as  she  could  make 
out  the  Vestals  would  have  the  Imperial  Sug- 
gestum  to  themselves. 

Long  before  the  day  arrived  Faustula  was 
sick  of  hearing  about  the  games.  She  was  not 
well,  a rare  thing  with  her,  and  a week  of  bad 
winds,  stifling,  heavy  and  moist,  from  the 


336 


FAUSTULA 


south-east  had  affected  her  as  no  wind  had 
ever  affected  her  before.  She  was  pale  and 
languid,  worn  out  with  uncertainty  and  vain 
dread.  Fabian’s  long  silence  was  easy  enough 
to  account  for,  but  no  accounting  for  it  eased 
her  anxiety.  On  the  last  occasion  on  which 
she  had  gone  to  the  vineyard,  in  a forlorn  hope 
of  gathering  news  of  him  from  Sergius,  Dirce 
had  come  suddenly  upon  them,  in  attendance, 
not  upon  Tacita,  but  on  Lollia,  once  men- 
tioned long  ago  as  a novice,  but  now  a novice 
no  longer,  a special  favourite  of  the  Vestalis 
Maxima. 

Lollia  had  smiled  serenely  and  passed  on, 
but  her  smile  had  not  been  agreeable,  and  Ser- 
gius had  been  troubled. 

“I  do  not  like  that  one,”  he  said,  “and  she 
comes  here  often  now  with  Dirce,  and  they 
walk  all  about  as  if  searching  for  someone 
. . . it  is  bad  that  they  saw  you  talking  to 
me.” 

On  the  evening  of  that  day  Lollia  remarked 
blandly  to  Faustula: 

“You  are  right  to  go  and  walk  in  the  vine- 
yard. The  fresher  air  will  do  you  good. 
You  are  looking  ill — Maxima  has  noticed  it. 
These  bad  winds  are  enough  to  kill  us  all.” 

Lollia  looked  in  no  immediate  danger.  She 


FAUSTULA  337 

was  the  sort  of  person  whom  no  wind  affects, 
without  a nerve  in  her  composition. 

“You  are  quite  out  of  sorts,”  Tacita  herself 
observed  a few  days  later.  “When  these  im- 
portant games  are  over  we  must  send  you  out 
of  Rome  for  a change.  Not  to  the  Latin 
shore,  though.  I should  be  afraid  of  the 
physician,  for  he  only  approves  of  it  in  win- 
ter or  early  spring.  You  did  not  fall  ill  at  the 
time,  like  our  good  Claudia,  but  you  have 
never  been  the  same  since.  I quite  accuse 
myself  of  it.  I ought  not  to  have  let  you  go 
there.  The  neighbourhood  was  not  safe  for 
you.  But  you  must  pluck  up  health  and 
spirits  for  this  great  spectacle — it  will  amuse 
you;  and  besides,  it  would  never  do  for  one  of 
us  to  be  absent.  Our  position  is  so  great  it 
would  be  remarked — we  are  so  few,  and  so 
much  in  the  public  eye.  If  your  spirits  are  de- 
pressed you  must  not  give  way — we  are  all  of 
us  a sort  of  public  characters.  I will  send 
Dirce  to  you  to-night  with  some  cordial-drops 

Faustula  protested  in  vain  that  she  needed 
no  cordial-drops:  Tacita  insisted. 

“Oh,  yes.  I shall  send  her  with  them,  and 
shall  expect  her  to  report  that  you  have  taken 
them;  it  cannot  be  all  spirits.  Your  physical 


338 


FAUSTULA 


health  must  be  upset  too.  These  are  exciting 
times,  and  perhaps  you  have  near  relatives 
among  the  Christians  and  are  feeling  anxious 
about  them?” 

“I  have  no  relations  at  all  among  them,” 
Faustula  answered  with  a dry  tongue  and 
parched  lips. 

“No?  I thought  you  had.  There  have 
been  so  many  inter-marriages  during  the  last 
fifty  years — even  very  respectable  families 
have  connections  that  are  rather  unfortunate 
now.  I am  sure  I heard  that  after  your 
mother’s  death  you  lived  much  with  some 
Christian  connexions  in  the  Sabina.” 

“I  have  no  Christian  relations.  I lived  with 
my  aunt,  her  name  was  Sabina,  at  Olibanum. 
She  disliked  the  Christians,  but  she  had  some 

Christian  neighbours ” 

“Ah,  yes.  Melilla,  Melampa,  what  was  it? 
Oh,  yes,  Melilla  of  the  Fabii.  And  they  were 
only  neighbours,  these  Fabii?” 

“Melania  is  the  name  you  mean.  She  is 
dead.  So  is  her  aunt,  Acilia.  They  were  not 
Fabii  but  Acilii  Glabriones.” 

“Oh!  Ah!  Acilii  Glabriones,”  said  Tacita, 
arching  her  eyebrows  nearly  up  into  her  infula. 
“Well,  I shall  send  you  the  drops.  And  they 
are  all  dead,  you  say.” 

She  ambled  off  and  Faustula  certainly  did 


FAUSTULA 


339 


not  want  to  detain  her  to  explain  that  the  Acilii 
Glabriones  were  not  all  dead. 

When  Dirce  came  to  her  room  with  Tacita’s 
cordial-drops  Faustula  was  in  bed;  but  Dirce 
stood  over  her  and  presented  a small  goblet 
into  which  she  poured  them  out  of  a little  phial, 
after  first  half-filling  it  with  water. 

“The  Virgo  Vestalis  Maxima  is  quite  dis- 
tressed about  you,”  she  said  with  much  solici- 
tude. “But  she  is  sure  this  will  do  you  good.” 
Faustula  merely  mumbled  something  and 
held  out  her  hand  for  the  tiny  goblet. 

“Good-night,”  she  said.  “I  shall  go  to 
sleep  at  once.  I was  nearly  asleep  when  you 
came  in.” 

She  then  took  the  cratella  and  at  the  mo- 
ment of  doing  so  pushed  a slipper  off  the  bed 
with  her  foot.  Dirce  seemed  nervous,  for  she 
started,  and  for  an  instant  looked  to  see  what 
had  fallen.  In  that  instant  Faustula  turned 
the  goblet  upside  down  over  a handkerchief 
she  had  ready,  in  the  next  she  had  the  glass  at 
her  lips  and  made  the  sound  of  swallowing. 

“It  does  not  taste  bad,”  she  said  coolly.  “I 
hope  it  will  make  me  sleep.” 

“Oh  yes.  No  doubt  it  will  make  you  sleep.” 
For  the  moment  Faustula  seemed  rather  less 
sleepy  than  before:  and  did  not  mumble  in 
the  drowsy  fashion  she  had  used  at  first.  For 


340 


FAUSTULA 


in  her  mouth  she  had  had  a small  wad  of  ab- 
sorbent hnt,  and  now,  needing  it  no  longer,  she 
had  pressed  it  back  with  her  tongue  between 
her  cheek  and  her  teeth,  being  careful  to  choose 
the  side  of  her  face  that  was  turned  away 
from  Dirce. 

“Shall  I take  the  lamp?”  the  slave  asked 
politely. 

“Yes,  I shall  go  to  sleep  at  once.” 

“Not  perhaps  at  once,  but  soon  I hope.” 
And  with  a respectful  greeting  Dirce  glided 
off. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 


The  next  day  was  that  of  the  great  games 
in  the  Coliseum. 

“I  am  glad,”  said  Tacita  to  Faustula  when 
they  met,  “that  you  are  so  much  better.  This 
in  an  important  occasion.  It  is  all  the  result 
of  a good  night’s  sleep.  That  was  my  drops.” 
“Dirce  told  me  they  were  meant  to  make  me 
sleep.” 

“Did  she?  Well,  it  is  true.  And  now  you 
feel  the  benefit.” 

Tacita  did  not  seem  anxious  to  prolong  the 
conversation.  She  was  less  talkative  than 
usual,  and  could  not  refrain  from  staring  at 
Faustula  against  her  will. 

Faustula  certainly  looked  less  ill  that  morn- 
ing, though  in  fact  she  had  not  slept  much  dur- 
ing the  night,  but  had  lain  awake  wondering 
what  she  could  do,  and  what  might  happen  to 
her  if  she  did  nothing.  Soon  after  daybreak 
she  had  fallen  into  a troubled  doze,  but  had 
started  up  with  a sense  of  danger  and  disaster 
to  find  Dirce  bending  over  her. 

“I  am  sorry  I awoke  you,”  she  said  meekly. 
“I  tried  to  make  no  noise;  but  I could  not  help 
coming  up  to  see  if  you  were  sleeping  com- 

341 


342 


FAUSTULA 


fortably.  Last  night  you  seemed  so  unwell — 
I hoped  to  be  able  to  take  a better  report  to  the 
Maxima  when  it  would  be  time  to  go  to  her.” 
“Yes,  I am  better.  I was  not  so  ill  as  you 
imagined.  You  need  not  wait  now.  Perhaps 
I shall  fall  asleep  again.” 

“There  is  nothing  I can  do  for  you?” 
“Nothing,  thank  you.  And  please  thank 
the  Vestalis  Maxima  for  her  cordial-drops.” 
Faustula,  though  she  had  slept  so  little, 
looked  better,  because  her  late  dull  depression 
had  now  yielded  to  a sort  of  excited  suspense, 
and  she  had  much  more  colour  than  usual. 
Her  eyes  shone  brightly  and  her  air  was  more 
alert.  Her  restlessness  looked  like  activity, 
and  a new  sense  of  present  personal  danger 
made  her  throw  off  the  haggard  listlessness  of 
the  last  few  weeks.  Her  spirits  were  not  bet- 
ter, they  were  only  quickened  by  a vague  but 
acute  apprehension.  She  was  anything  but  a 
coward,  and  this  odd  sensation  of  risk  and  dan- 
ger awoke  her  out  of  what  had  been  degenera- 
ting into  a mere  lethargy.  She  suddenly  felt 
that  a quick,  abrupt  decision  might  soon  be 
called  for;  that  instead  of  doing  nothing  she 
might  have  in  a moment  to  do  something  that 
would  need  all  her  force  of  will  and  determina- 
tion. 

Throughout  that  morning  she  was  more 


FAUSTULA 


343 


keenly  observant  that  she  had  been  for  many 
weeks,  and  she  perceived  plainly  that  she  was 
avoided,  whereas  hitherto  any  avoidance  had 
been  all  on  her  side.  No  one  spoke  to  her  with- 
out necessity,  and  then  with  restraint  and  as 
briefly  as  possible. 

This  continued  till  it  was  time  for  her  to  go 
to  her  room  and  put  on  the  gala  dress  neces- 
sary for  her  appearance  in  the  Coliseum.  The 
moment  after  she  had  entered  it  Volumina 
slipped  in,  and  Faustula  was  surprised  at  her 
coming,  for  there  never  had  been  the  least  in- 
timacy between  them,  though  there  had  grown 
up  in  the  younger  woman’s  mind  a sort  of  con- 
sciousness that  Volumina  rather  liked  her — as 
much,  perhaps,  as  it  was  in  her  dry  nature  to 
like  anyone. 

They  were  alone  only  for  a mere  moment, 
and  both  of  them  knew  that  it  would  be  so, 
for  Faustula’s  slaves  would  come  in  immedi- 
ately to  attend  upon  her.  Volumina’s  manner 
was  very  peculiar : it  was  not  by  any  means  af- 
fectionate, but  it  seemed  to  express  a half-re- 
luctant  disengaged  compassion. 

“The  Vestalis  Maxima,”  she  said  almost  in  a 
whisper,  “sent  you  certain  cordial-drops  last 
night  by  Dirce?” 

F austula  nodded,  standing  silent  opposite  to 
her. 


344 


FAUSTULA 


“But  you  did  not  take  them?” 

“No.” 

“It  was  a pity.  It  would  have  been  better 
for  you  ...  if  she  sends  you  any  more  medi- 
cine, take  it.” 

Whether  she  had  more  to  say,  or  no,  Faus- 
tula  could  not  tell,  for  two  of  her  slaves  en- 
tered at  that  moment,  and  Volumina  went 
away,  with  a civil  word  of  satisfaction  at  find- 
ing her  so  much  better. 

To  the  Coliseum  the  Vestals  went  in  a sort 
of  procession,  each  litter  surrounded  by  its  own 
group  of  slaves.  But  there  was,  of  course,  a 
certain  space  between  the  litters,  and  some  nat- 
urally had  arrived  at  the  amphitheatre  a good 
many  minutes  before  the  last  had  reached  it. 
As  it  happened  Faustula  came  last. 

The  Imperial  entrance  was  closed,  and  had 
been  closed  for  many  years.  Constantine  had 
used  it  last.  Close  to  it  was  the  entrance  ap- 
propriated to  the  Vestals,  outside  which  the 
earlier  arrivals  waited  for  the  rest. 

As  Faustula’s  litter  came  abreast  of  the 
Meta  Sudans  she  heard  Flavia’s  voice  greeting 
her,  and  the  bearers  stood  still  to  allow  the  sis- 
ters to  speak.  Their  f ather  was  with  his  elder 
daughter  and  some  way  behind  them  was  an- 
other group,  moving  from  the  direction  of  the 


FAUSTULA 


345 


Palatine  towards  the  amphitheatre.  Of  course 
there  were  hundreds  of  people  hurrying  the 
same  way,  but  Faustula  while  exchanging 
greetings  with  her  father  and  sister  noted  that 
group ; the  central  figure  was  evidently  a pris- 
oner, and  it  was  obvious  whither  he  was  being 
led,  and  for  what  purpose.  Faustula  felt  this 
with  a sick  horror,  even  while  she  was  replying 
to  Flavia’s  smiling  flatteries. 

“It  is  a fine  thing  to  be  a Vestal,”  she  said. 
“There  is  no  Emperor  here,  and  you  will  have 
the  Suggestum  all  to  yourselves.  If  we  were 
criminals  on  our  way  to  death  you  would  be 
able  to  pardon  one  of  us  at  least — an  embar- 
rassing choice  though.  . . .” 

At  the  moment  Flavia  said  this  Faustula 
noted  two  things.  First  that  the  party  in 
charge  of  the  prisoner  had  swerved  abruptly, 
and  secondly  that,  if  she  had  not  been  stopped, 
her  litter  and  that  party  would  have  met.  Her 
ears  were  full  of  Flavia’s  gibing  congratula- 
tions, full,  too,  of  a singing  noise  like  that  of 
the  sea  as  they  say  one  hears  it  in  a shell. 

Her  father’s  face  had  an  expression  she  had 
never  seen  on  it,  and  he  hardly  lifted  it  to  hers. 
A miserable  belated  horror  and  compassion  was 
written  on  it,  and  he  looked  old  and  haggard. 
A name  had  caught  his  ears  within  those  few 


346 


FAUSTULA 


moments  since  Flavia  and  he  had  interrupted 
Faustula’s  onward  progress.  It  was  only  a 
short  interruption. 

“I  must  go  on,”  Faustula  declared,  “they 
are  all  waiting  for  me.” 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  Flavia  touched 
it,  then  Faustulus  took  it  and  bent  over  her. 

“Can  you  go  back?”  he  asked  in  a stifled 
whisper. 

“The  Lady  Virgo  Vestalis  Maxima  bids  me 
tell  the  Lady  Virgo  Vestalis  Faustula  that  she 
awaits  her,”  interrupted  a lictor,  stepping  up  to 
the  other  side  of  Faustula’s  litter.  And  the 
bearers  instantly  moved  forward. 

Faustulus  and  Flavia  followed,  making  for 
one  of  the  many  entrances  appropriated  to 
patricians  holding  no  office  in  the  state.  There 
they  found  Tullia  awaiting  them  in  no  good 
temper.  She  had  used  her  privilege,  as  a mar- 
ried woman,  of  driving,  but  had  sent  her  hus- 
band on  to  be  ready  to  receive  her. 

Faustulus  knew  things  concerning  which  his 
younger  daughter  was  quite  in  the  dark.  F a- 
bian  could  have  told  her  had  he  been  the  sort  of 
man  who  can  tell  such  things.  Flavia,  aban- 
doned by  Lucilius,  because  of  his  fears  of  her 
evil  eye,  had,  after  her  first  meeting  with  Fa- 
bian met  him  often,  and  not  by  any  accident  on 
her  side.  What  perverse  fancy  made  her  ad- 


FAUSTULA 


347 


mire  him  she  best  knew  herself,  but  she  did  ad- 
mire him,  as  she  had  never  admired  Lucilius. 
She  had  been  content  to  allow  Lucilius  to  ad- 
mire her,  till  he  gave  it  up  out  of  a superstitious 
sense  of  danger.  From  the  first  moment  that 
she  had  seen  Fabian  and  her  sister  together  she 
had  known  well  that  the  young  Christian  offi- 
cer loved  Faustula;  but  Faustula  was  a Ves- 
tal ; and  Flavia  had  determined  that  she  would 
make  him  love  her  instead.  The  falling  of 
that  lamp  on  her  sister’s  shoulder  had  cost  her 
a husband.  It  would  be  a sweet  revenge  to  fill 
his  place  with  a lover  whom  she  could  love  her- 
self and  who  loved  her  sister. 

Fabian  was  the  last  man  on  earth  to  think 
himself  irresistible,  and  the  mere  fact  that 
Flavia  was  like  her  sister  drew  him  to  her, 
while  in  another  sense  it  held  him  from  her:  but 
at  last  he  could  not  help  seeing  what  others  had 
seen  long  before,  and  had  carefully  avoided 
every  chance  of  meeting  Flavia.  Of  all  sub- 
jects on  earth  it  was  the  last  of  which  he  could 
have  spoken  to  Faustula  on  those  occasions 
when  they  met  beside  the  Latin  shore. 

Flavia’s  love  was  of  the  sort  that  turns  read- 
ily to  hate;  and  of  all  men  and  women  alive, 
she  now  hated  most  Fabian  and  her  sister. 
Among  her  intimates  Tacita  was  one,  and  Dirce 
was  her  pensioner,  as  she  was  Tacita’s  spy. 


348 


FAUSTULA 


Of  these  two  latter  facts  Faustulus  knew 
nothing.  That  Flavia  had  loved  Fabian  and 
now  hated  him  he  knew  very  well. 

He  hardly  defended  himself  against  Tullia’s 
sharp  complaints.  He  felt  old  and  very  tired. 
He  was  not,  so  far  as  he  understood,  tired  of 
the  world,  but  it  was  tired  of  him.  He  was 
fifty-seven  years  old,  and  instead  of  having 
grown  fat  he  had  become  lean  and  bony;  and 
he  was  almost  bald.  His  pleasant  wit  had 
turned  sour  and  sharp,  and  young  fellows  were 
afraid  of  it.  Old  fellows  feared  it  more, 
but  he  never  aff ected  elderly  company,  and  he 
knew  that  he  was  not  welcome  among  the  men, 
half  his  age,  whose  society  he  would  have  liked. 
They  stopped  laughing  when  he  came  among 
them,  and,  when  he  made  them  laugh,  it  was  not 
always  flattering  to  note  the  looks  they  would 
exchange.  Young  men  of  their  sort  talk  with 
an  indefensible  license  among  themselves,  but 
they  have  a queer  way  of  expressing  their 
amusement  when  men  who  might  be  their  fa- 
thers indulge  in  jests  they  might  make  them- 
selves. 

Faustulus  clung  to  life  but  he  could  not  him- 
self say  why.  It  yielded  him  very  little.  He 
knew  at  last  that  there  was  one  human  being 
whom  he  could  have  loved,  and  he  had  sent  her 
from  him  to  a horrible  living  tomb,  because  he 


FAUSTULA 


349 


had  not  had  manhood  enough  to  keep  her  at  his 
side,  and  defend  her  from  slight  and  injustice. 
To  Faustula  he  was  what  he  had  made  himself 
to  her,  and  he  understood  it  with  a dull  accept- 
ance of  unalterable  fact. 

Twenty  years  ago  he  had  watched  the  rising 
supremacy  of  Christianity  with  a half-wistful 
regret.  He  had  no  hatred  of  it — only  a placid 
indifference  mixed  with  a mild  scorn.  It  was 
too  good  for  this  world — or,  if  this  world  got 
hold  of  it,  it  would  lose  its  fine  unearthly  fla- 
vour, and  become  merely  practical  and  cheap. 
What  he  regretted  was  the  old  world  which  it 
seemed  destined  to  push  into  the  past.  F or  the 
gods  as  such  he  cared  nothing;  but  had  a fond- 
ness for  the  old  picturesque  state  of  things,  that 
the  new  would  end.  The  future  never  ap- 
pealed to  him:  let  it  see  to  itself.  What  he 
liked  was  the  past,  with  its  air  of  imperishable 
youth.  To  some  people  the  word  antiquity 
suggests  age,  whereas  in  truth  it  belongs  to 
the  infancy  of  time.  To  Faustulus  it  was 
the  day  in  which  he  lived  that  seemed  aged. 
Without  any  antagonism  against  Christian- 
ity rooted  in  hatred  of  its  teaching,  such  as 
many  of  his  contemporaries  felt,  he  had 
against  it  a grudge  because  it  seemed  fated 
to  complete  the  break  up  of  the  old  state  of 
things;  and  he  shrank  from  what  was  new, 


350 


FAUSTULA 


almost  as  though  it  were  vulgar.  Besides  it 
made  him  feel  old  to  belong  to  what  would 
be  soon  an  obsolete  condition  of  things. 
Now  even  that  mild  dislike  was  changed  be- 
cause the  position  of  Christianity  had  changed 
with  an  unlooked-for,  surprising  sudden- 
ness. In  his  selfish,  shallow  nature  there  had 
never  been  any  rancour,  and  the  rancour  with 
which  the  Christians  were  now  being  treated 
did  not  please  him.  They  had  not  troubled 
him,  and  the  bitterness  he  felt  about  him  was 
unwelcome.  He  smelt  blood  in  the  air,  and  it 
was  a smell  that  sickened  him. 

As  he  took  his  seat  behind  his  wife,  with 
Flavia  on  his  other  hand,  he  was  oppressed 
by  a sense  of  impending  tragedy;  and  from 
all  tragedy,  even  that  of  the  stage,  he  had  an 
instinctive  aversion.  He  came  to  the  Coli- 
seum out  of  fashion,  not  because  he  cared  for 
gladiatorial  combats:  he  disliked  them,  indeed, 
not  from  principle  but  because  they  shocked 
his  refinement.  Numbers  of  men  immeasur- 
ably better  than  Faustulus  would  go  on  at- 
tending them  here  for  forty  years  to  come. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 


When  the  Vestals  took  their  places  on 
the  Imperial  Suggestum  the  amphi- 
theatre seemed  already  crowded  from  the  po- 
dium to  the  colonnade  at  the  top  where  the  un- 
classed spectators  stood  wedged  together. 
Xevertheless  many  hundred  of  people  con- 
tinued to  arrive  and  all  found  places,  for  it 
was  the  boast  of  Rome  that  there  were  seats 
for  87,000  in  the  Coliseum. 

On  the  podium  were  seated  the  great  offi- 
cials, among  whom  the  City  Prsefect,  Aproni- 
anus,  had  a high  place.  There,  too,  were  the 
Flamens,  and  the  members  of  the  Sacred  Col- 
leges. From  it,  on  the  south  side,  projected 
the  canopied  Pulvinar,  with  the  Emperor’s 
empty  throne  of  gold  and  ivory,  beside  which 
the  Vestals  had  their  seats. 

Outside,  it  was  a day  of  glaring  sun  and 
fresh  breeze,  the  first  cool  wind  for  many  days; 
but  here,  under  the  enormous  awning  was 
neither  breeze  nor  sun.  The  velarium  curved 
down  to  the  masts  set  round  the  arena,  so  that 
all  the  seats  were  in  shade;  but  to  Faustula  it 
seemed  like  a lid  shutting  in  the  steaming  heat 
of  all  those  close-packed  scores  of  thousands. 

351 


352 


FAUSTULA 


One  side  of  the  arena  was  in  shade  too,  but  the 
end  opposite  the  Suggestum  was  in  full  blaze 
of  light. 

Tacita  sat  nearest  to  the  Emperor’s  throne, 
Claudia  next  to  her;  then  came  Faustula  with 
Lollia  on  her  other  hand  between  her  and  the 
other  Vestals. 

Even  if  she  had  had  nothing  to  trouble  her, 
Faustula  would  have  been  ill  at  ease.  She 
was  one  of  those  people  to  whom  a crowd  is  re- 
pugnant, and  the  mere  heat  and  closeness 
would  have  stifled  her.  She  knew  also  that 
the  gladiatorial  combats,  forbidden  by  Con- 
stantine thirty-seven  years  ago,  were  to  form 
part  of  this  spectacle.  Constantine’s  decree 
had  been  ignored  before;  to-day  it  was  to  be 
disobeyed  expressly  to  show  that  the  state  of 
things  a Christian  Emperor  had  begun  to  cre- 
ate was  overturned.  It  would  be  very  rash 
to  conclude  that  the  audience  was  all  heathen, 
more  probably  there  were  numbers  of  Chris- 
tians present,  but  Faustula  knew  few  even  by 
sight,  and  recognized  none.  Many  of  the 
higher  class  and  better  informed  kept  away, 
no  doubt,  because  they  realized  that  the  spec- 
tacle was  intended  as  a demonstration  against 
Christianity;  some  kept  away  because  of  a ru- 
mour that  had  reached  them  at  the  last  mo- 
ment. 


FAUSTULA 


353 


First  came  the  Pompa  with  its  procession 
round  the  arena  and  then  the  entertainment 
consisted  of  athletic  games  and  races,  gym- 
nastic contests  which  seemed  to  interest  every- 
body more  than  they  interested  Faustula;  they 
were  harmless,  but  she  knew  nothing  about 
them,  and  her  mind  was  strained  to  a suspense 
that  made  them  almost  intolerable. 

Then  there  came  a wonderful  transforma- 
tion scene  in  which  the  whole  arena  assumed 
the  appearance  of  a mimic  forest;  and  pres- 
ently the  little  green  hillocks  opened  and  wild 
animals  leapt  forth  from  them.  There  was  a 
hunt,  and  the  great  audience  became  more  ea- 
ger and  excited.  Still  nothing  very  tragic 
had  occurred.  Some  hunters  had  been 
wounded,  it  was  not  easy  to  see  how  seri- 
ously; some  indeed,  it  was  whispered  about, 
had  been  killed.  An  immense  number  of 
beasts  had  at  all  events  been  slaughtered. 

Then  there  was  a pause,  breathless  and  ex- 
pectant, during  which  the  trees  disappeared 
under  ground,  and  the  whole  vast  arena  was 
sprinkled  with  sand  by  hundreds  of  slaves. 

During  that  interval  of  waiting  Faustula 
sat  silent,  wondering  whether  Claudia  and 
Lollia  could  hear  her  heart  beating.  It 
seemed  to  have  risen  to  her  throat,  and  its 
thud,  thud,  thud,  almost  choked  her.  She 


354 


FAUSTULA 


could  hardly  see.  All  the  blood  in  her  body 
seemed  to  have  rushed  to  her  eyes,  though  in 
truth  her  face  was  now  very  pale. 

Neither  Claudia  nor  Lollia  spoke  to  her, 
and  with  all  her  soul  she  thanked  God  for  it. 
Claudia  was  listening  to  Tacita:  Lollia  was 
talking  to  the  Vestal  on  her  other  side. 

“Apronianus  is  giving  the  games,”  Tacita 
was  saying  in  her  tiresome,  penetrating  voice. 
“He  is  so  generous.  And  such  a Roman!” 

Out  of  her  far  away  childhood  a song  rang 
in  Faustula’s  ears,  a song  of  cheery  slaves, 
singing  at  their  garden- work  in  the  sun ; words 
she  had  heard  without  heeding  then, 

“Salve!  Salve!  Christe  Noster,  Salve! 

Libera  Nos,  Rex  ac  Redemptor;  Salve! 

Libera  Servos  catenates,  Dom’ne 
Salve  Majestatis  Rex  et  Liberator! 

O servos  caecos  libera !” 

She  thought  of  the  sunlit  garden  at  Civi- 
tella,  of  the  day  when  she  had  tried  to  cut  the 
tangled  knot  of  her  jealous  troubles,  and  Fa- 
bian had  saved  her;  of  how  he  had  told  her 
Who  had  sent  him,  and  how  she  had  been  jeal- 
ous even  that  he  had  not  come  of  his  mere 
self.  . . . 

And  from  the  far  end  of  the  arena  two 
groups  of  gladiators  came  towards  her — 


FAUSTULA 


355 


slowly,  yet  proudly,  with  a cold  disdain  of  life 
that  had  never  been  kind  to  them  or  friendly. 
They  were  all  young,  vigorous  and  stalwart; 
yet  death  was  calling  to  them,  not  with  the  fee- 
ble pipe  of  sickness,  the  weary  moan  of  tired 
age.  It  was  not  God’s  voice  that  called  them, 
but  cruel  man’s,  man  that  must  die  too.  In 
that  huge  place  she  could  not  see  their  faces. 
The  faces  might  be  such  as  their  training  had 
made  them,  brutal,  braggart,  bestial : she  could 
only  see  the  long  straight  limbs,  the  strong 
manly  step,  the  uncowed  bearing. 

Death  could  hardly  be  more  pitiless  to  them 
than  life  had  been;  and  now  hand  to  hand  they 
must  meet  him.  And  Faustula  in  all  her  short 
life  had  seen  no  one  die.  At  least  her  sus- 
pense and  sickening  sense  of  waiting  was  no 
longer  for  herself.  She  could  hardly  see. 
When  they  had  come  the  whole  length  of  the 
arena  and  stood  still  beneath  the  Suggestum, 
she  could  barely  distinguish  their  faces — and 
they  were  all  strange  to  her,  all  foreign. 

Before  the  Emperor’s  empty  throne  they 
bent  and  before  his  effigy  and  emblems;  raised 
themselves  to  their  last  salute,  and  spoke;  not 
a sound,  not  a gasp  from  all  the  eighty  thou- 
sand throats  but  theirs: 


“Ave  Imperator morituri  te  salutant !” 


356 


FAUSTULA 


In  one  group  they  had  stood  together  to 
venerate  the  absent  Csesar,  now  they  fell  apart 
into  two  bands,  each  under  its  own  Lanistse 
who  had  trained  them.  There  were  heavily- 
armed  Mirmillones,  and  light-armed  Secu- 
tores,  and  Retiarii  with  nets,  sharp  daggers  and 
tridents. 

There  was  a brief,  dead-silent  pause,  and 
then  the  clash  and  scuffle  of  furious  combat, 
in  which  silence  was  slain  first.  Screams  and 
shouts  rang  out  on  every  side,  soon  mixed  with 
the  groans  and  curses  of  the  wounded  and  the 
dying,  and  in  the  arena  hung  a thick  cloud  of 
dust  on  which  the  sun  shone  as  upon  a white 
mist.  The  faces  of  the  audience  were  more 
passionate  and  furious  than  those  of  the  fight- 
ers, and  they  hurled  down  reproaches  against 
those  who  seemed  scarce  eager  enough  to  die. 
The  thin  disguise  of  humanity  was  in  tatters 
and  cast  aside  by  fourscore  thousand  beasts. 

God  knows  that  might  have  served  for  cli- 
max, but  a more  brutal  climax  was  held  in  re- 
serve. Before  the  wolfish  cries  had  died  down, 
the  snarling  laughter  more  inhuman  than  hy- 
sena’s,  a herald  stood  out  in  the  arena  and  made 
proclamation.  The  games  of  the  amphithe- 
atre were  a religious  act,  and  by  a religious  act 
they  were  to  be  ended.  A criminal  against 


FAUSTULA 


357 


the  state,  and  the  most  sacred  thing  in  the  state, 
was  to  atone  publicly  for  his  secret  treach- 
erous crimes  levelled  against  religion  itself ; all 
knew  that  the  welfare  of  Rome  was  knit  with 
the  inviolable  custody  of  her  Palladium,  and 
that  custody  was  the  charge  of  the  Sacred  Vir- 
gins vowed  to  the  service  of  the  goddess  Vesta. 
Their  august  rank,  their  unique  privilege  were 
the  testimony  of  Rome’s  sense  of  the  une- 
qualled importance  of  their  trust.  Of  all 
criminals  none  could  be  abhorred  more  than 
one  who  should  impiously  dare  to  attempt 
the  corruption  of  one  of  them.  And  this  had 
been  proved  against  him  who  presently  should 
see  what  the  anger  of  the  gods  was,  how  Rome 
could  avenge  her  outraged  honour.  For  the 
honour  of  the  Vestals  was  the  charge  and  care 
of  Rome  herself.  A man,  Rome-born,  and 
Rome-bred  but  unworthy  of  so  great  a Mother 
and  so  glorious  a cradle;  a warrior  of  her  ar- 
mies, disgracing  the  arms  he  bore,  had  first  im- 
piously refused  to  venerate  her  Imperial 
Standards,  and  then  had  broken  prison:  and 
this  same  man  had  planned  to  corrupt  a Vestal 
from  her  fidelity  to  hold  her  from  Vesta’s  In- 
violable Shrine  to  himself.  For  that  offence 
the  penalty  was  death  by  flogging,  and  here  he 
was  to  die,  where  all  Rome  might  see  the  ven- 


358 


FAUSTULA 


geance  she  still  knew  how  to  inflict  on  such  as 
insulted  her  Majesty  and  that  of  the  Goddess 
in  whose  charge  her  Palladium  had  been  kept 
from  age  to  age. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 


If  Apronianus  planned  this,  he  had  planned 
it  well.  He  chose  a moment  when  those 
who  heard  were  drunk  with  blood,  and  mad  to 
drink  deeper.  None  were  calm,  and  few  in- 
clined for  question.  The  proclamation  was 
made  in  the  name  of  a law,  and  few  asked 
themselves  if  the  proclamation  of  such  a pun- 
ishment in  such  a place  was  itself  legal.  It 
was  a patriotic  moment,  and  many  who  cared 
little  enough  for  Vesta,  were  burning  with  a 
passion  for  Rome,  for  whom  they  had  never 
done  anything  but  shout  in  their  lives. 

The  religion  of  the  criminal  was  not  even 
mentioned;  what  was  proclaimed  was  his  trea- 
son, though  the  fact  that  he  had  refused  to 
venerate  the  standards  was  evidence  enough 
that  he  was  no  worshipper  of  the  gods. 

Not  one  in  fifty,  perhaps,  heard  the  actual 
words  of  the  herald:  but  what  he  said  was 
passed  from  mouth  to  mouth — more  than  what 
he  said,  and  all  knew  in  a few  moments  that  a 
man  was  to  be  flogged  to  death  for  attempt- 
ing the  corruption  of  a Vestal  Virgin.  And 
with  these  whispers  came,  no  one  could  tell 
whence,  that  of  his  name,  and  that  of  his  rank 

359 


860 


FAUSTULA 


; — Acilius  Glabrio,  a patrician  and  an  officer  of 
the  Imperial  army. 

Faustula  heard  Lollia  whisper  it,  and  al- 
most at  the  same  instant  Tacita,  not  in  a whis- 
per, spoke  it  to  Claudia.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  knew  it  already.  Before  the  group 
entered  at  the  far  end  of  the  arena  she  knew 
it  would  be  the  same  she  had  seen  in  the  dis- 
tance, while  Flavia  and  her  father  had  held 
her  talking  by  the  Meta  Sudans.  They  had 
been  too  far  away  then  for  her  to  recognize 
the  central  figure.  She  could  barely  recog- 
nize him  now.  Her  eyes  were  almost  blind,  a 
rushing  of  many  winds  was  in  her  ears.  She 
did  not  tremble,  for  her  limbs  seemed  dead  al- 
ready. With  one  hand  she  held  each  marble 
arm  of  her  white  seat,  but  her  hands  were 
colder  and  more  white.  But  she  knew  well 
the  figure  and  the  gait,  the  shining  red-brown 
hair  like  her  own,  the  form  of  the  only  face 
she  loved,  and,  ah,  she  knew  the  crime.  The 
proof  of  it  she  could  not  know. 

Now  and  only  now  was  it  being  passed 
about  that  the  man  was  a Christian;  one  who 
had  refused  to  honour  the  great  gods  of  Rome 
and  who  had  aimed  at  dishonouring  one  of 
the  greatest  of  them.  They  were  snaky  whis- 
pers that  reached  her  own  ears,  but  louder 


FAUSTULA 


361 


hisses,  groans  and  curses  were  passing  from 
mouth  to  mouth. 

Long  ago,  as  a little  child,  she  had  told 
Acilia  that  the  heathen,  her  own  people,  were 
bad  because  of  the  things  they  had  done  to  the 
Christians  in  days  that  seemed  then  altogether 
past.  She  had  never  changed  her  mind,  and 
now  those  days  were  come  back,  and  the  same 
things  were  being  done  again. 

They  stripped  him  of  his  accoutrements  as 
an  officer,  and  the  executioners  with  their 
whips  stood  ready.  She  saw  him  sign  himself 
with  the  sign  of  the  slave’s  death  his  Master 
had  died ; she  could  not  hear  him  tell  himself : 
“The  servant  cannot  be  greater  than  his 
Master:  it  is  enough  that  he  be  as  his  Mas- 
ter.” 

A fury  of  execration  burst  from  thousands 
of  throats  at  sight  of  the  sign  hated  always, 
hated  still. 

“Let  him  die!”  “Let  him  die!”  came  in 
shriek  upon  shriek  from  tongues  that  spoke 
the  classic  language  of  the  poets  and  philoso- 
phers. “Let  him  die.” 

Yes.  He  must  die.  Not  by  him  must  the 
knot  of  Faustula’s  difficulties  be  cut.  By  him, 
somehow,  she  had  trusted  to  escape  and  join 
him  in  his  faith.  That  could  never  be  now. 


862 


FAUSTULA 


It  was  her  faith  none  the  less.  Of  the  mar- 
tyrs she  had  heard  from  him,  and  how  some 
of  them  had  had  no  baptism  of  water,  being 
baptized  by  Christ  in  their  own  blood. 

For  many  hours  she  had  felt  some  great 
thing  coming  upon  her,  the  certainty  that  she 
might  in  a sudden  moment  be  called  upon  to 
take  a great  decision.  It  was  come  now.  If 
only,  if  only  . . . her  limbs  seemed  dead  . . . 
if  only  they  would  obey  her:  if  she  could  but 
stand  up  upon  her  feet  . . . her  body  felt 
dead,  but  her  mind  was  alive,  her  heart  choked 
her,  and  her  tongue  choked  her:  and  her  bps 
would  not  move.  But  they  must  move,  and 
her  poor  cold  body  must  serve  her  this  one  last 
turn.  Her  will  was  hers.  Pressing  her  hands 
down  upon  the  lions’  heads  that  made  the  ends 
of  the  arms  of  her  seat,  she  bade  her  heart 
speak  for  her,  “Christe  adjura  me  . . . pro 
hac  sold  vice : this  first  time,  this  last  . . 

Claudia  had  not  once  looked  towards  her, 
but  she  saw  her  rising  in  her  place,  and  with 
one  terrified  hand  tried  to  hold  her  back.  Poor 
Claudia!  the  grave  of  a confessor  might  be 
hers  one  day,  but  not  the  courage  of  a martyr 
to-day. 

“Faustula!  Faustula!”  she  gasped  in  an 
agonized  whisper,  leaning  forward  as  in  a 
hopeless  effort  to  screen  her  from  Tacita. 


FAUSTULA 


363 


“Faustula!  for  pity — ” and  she  would  have 
held  her  back.  She  little  knew  how  easy  it 
should  have  been,  how  little  power  to  lift  it- 
self there  was  in  that  frail,  numb  body.  But 
there  was  just  enough. 

“Oh  Christ!  Help  me  for  this  once,”  her 
heart  had  prayed  for  her,  “for  this  one  time, 
this  first  and  last.” 

Abyssus  abyssum  invocat!  To  the  depths 
of  the  heart  of  the  Man  this  poor  girl’s  heart 
had  cried  from  its  own  lonely  depths,  and 
when  cried  ever  any  heart  in  vain? 

All  white  Faustula  stood  upon  her  chill  feet, 
and  saw  them  all,  row  upon  row,  of  devilish 
blood-hungry  faces:  saw  them  all,  and  saw 
nothing  . . . 

“Ab  ego  Christiana!” 

Even  those  near  her  could  scarcely  hear: 
though  they  did  hear.  The  Suggestum  stood 
out  into  the  arena,  and  thousands  could  see: 
but  none,  save  the  Vestals  and  their  lictors, 
could  hear  the  words  forced  out  between  those 
colourless,  quivering  lips.  There  was  another 
horrible  sound  to  drown  them,  as  the  thongs 
fell  upon  the  body  of  the  last  of  the  Acilii  Gla- 
briones,  who  died  a martyr. 

“But  I,  too,  am  a Christian,”  Faustula’s 
tongue  said  for  her. 

And  Tacita  laughed. 


364 


FAUSTULA 


“Not  that  way,”  she  said  between  her  pretty 
teeth.  “Claudia,  pull  her  back.” 

There  was  no  need.  Faustula’s  body  was 
weaker  than  her  spirit,  and  it  had  yielded  all 
the  obedience  it  could.  She  had  fallen  back 
before  Claudia  touched  her,  before  many  had 
turned  their  eyes  to  look  her  way,  for  there 
was  something  else  to  glue  those  cruel  eyes  to 
the  group  in  the  arena.  What  was  done  there 
Faustula  by  God’s  kind  grace  saw  not,  nor 
heard. 


CHAPTER  XL 


It  was  not  till  the  amphitheatre  was  empty 
that  Faustula  left  it,  and  she  left  it  a pris- 
oner. When  consciousness  crept,  painfully, 
back  the  other  Vestals  were  all  gone,  and 
nearly  all  the  rest  of  the  audience.  The  bod- 
ies of  the  slain  gladiators  were  being  car- 
ried out  by  slaves,  and  a little  group  of  Chris- 
tians had  already  taken  away  that  of  Acilius 
Glabrio. 

Faustula  was  still  lying  back  in  her  throne- 
like chair  in  the  attitude  in  which  she  had  fallen 
into  it  when  her  eyes  opened;  she  felt  horribly 
sick  and  horribly  cold.  No  one  had  done  any- 
thing to  revive  her:  no  woman  had  chafed  her 
hands  or  supported  her  senseless  body.  No 
woman  was  near  her  now ; but  there  were  some 
men,  and  one  of  them,  as  soon  as  he  thought 
she  could  understand,  told  her  that  she  was  his 
prisoner. 

She  did  not  ask  her  crime,  and  strange  to 
say  did  not  guess.  As  soon  as  she  could  think 
at  all  she  thought  her  offence  was  simply  that 
of  having  declared  herself  a Christian.  She 
had  not  even  heard  Tacita  saying  “Not  that 
way.  . . She  supposed  they  were  taking 

365 


366 


FAUSTULA 


her  to  prison  for  her  public  profession  of  a 
faith  that  was  alien  from  the  worship  of  the 
gods.  She  was  a Vestal  and  she  had  repudi- 
ated Vesta  for  Christ. 

It  was  at  night,  in  the  prison  itself,  that  she 
learned  the  truth.  The  crime  laid  to  her 
charge  was  that  of  having  broken  her  vow. 

She  had  expected  nothing  else  but  death — 
had  vaguely  imagined  that  it  might  come  there 
and  then  in  the  arena  of  the  Coliseum.  Of  ig- 
nominy and  shame  she  had  had  no  foreboding: 
for  wholly  innocent  of  any  fault  it  had  simply 
never  entered  into  her  mind  that  such  a crime 
would  be  pretended  against  her.  Now  that 
she  was  accused,  in  spite  of  her  innocence,  she 
never  doubted  that  she  would  be  found  guilty. 
She  was  spared  that  suspense,  for  she  never 
cheated  herself  with  any  hope.  It  was  well 
she  did  not,  for  there  was  no  hope  for  her. 

On  the  man  whom  they  had  killed  had  been 
found  at  the  time  of  his  arrest  a letter  to 
herself,  not  addressed  to  her  by  name,  but 
beginning  with  her  name  “My  own  beloved 
Faustula.”  In  it  he  told  her  what  his  plan  was : 
the  only  plan  he  could  imagine. 

“Now,”  wrote  Fabian,  “I  know  you  are  a 
Christian.  I did  not  dare  to  believe  it  till  you 
had  told  me.  In  all  but  baptism  you  are  a 
Christian:  and  now  I may  say  what  I never 


FAUSTULA  367 

could  say  before.  For  you  belong  no  more 
to  Vesta.” 

He  told  her  of  his  love,  in  few  words,  but 
with  a passion  of  tenderness  curbed  for  many 
years;  and  then  he  wrote,  “Faustula,  I will  tell 
you,  if  you  do  not  know  it,  I will  tell  you — 
you  love  me  too.  You  have  loved  me  since  you 
were  a little  child,  and  since  I was  a boy  I have 
loved  you.  There  is  only  this  one  way:  you 
have  no  one  but  me  in  all  the  world.  If  there 
were  anyone  else  I would  not  even  now  thrust 
myself  upon  you.  But  there  is  no  one  else, 
and  there  is  no  other  way.  I must  take  you 
into  my  charge:  you  belong  no  more  to  Vesta, 
and  you  do  belong  to  me.”  He  told  her 
plainly  that  she  must  be  his  wife.  And  he  told 
her  how. 

“It  will  not  be  hard  for  you  and  Claudia  to 
get  leave  to  go  to  Turris  Laurentina  again. 
Tell  Sergius  if  you  can  manage  this — I know 
we  may  have  to  wait.  It  may  be  even  for 
weeks.  When  you  do  go  there  I will  see  you, 
we  will  meet  as  we  met  before  so  often  on  the 
Latin  shore.  I will  arrange  that  that  old 
priest  shall  baptize  you  and  marry  us,  and 
there  shall  be  a boat  that  will  take  us  out  to  a 
ship,  both  boat  and  ship  belong  to  our  people, 
and  in  it  we  can  escape  to  Africa.  What  will 
happen  later  must  depend  on  how  public 


368 


FAUSTULA 


events  turn  out.”  All  the  rest  he  would  tell 
when  they  should  meet. 

But  Faustula  never  read  his  letter:  for  those 
who  did  read  it,  it  was  enough.  It  was  well 
for  her  that  she  never  tortured  herself  with 
any  hope. 

At  first  she  could  think  of  little  else  than  of 
her  being  safe  from  the  horror  of  the  Coli- 
seum: her  prison  was  like  a refuge  from  that 
horrible  mountain  of  faces  curving  down  to 
the  shambles  of  the  arena.  To  have  recovered 
the  power  of  suffering  there,  alone  in  the 
midst  of  all  those  cruel  eyes — that  would  have 
been  intolerable.  To  be  alone  here,  in  her  cell, 
with  no  one  to  stare  upon  her,  was  like  an  un- 
imagined gift  of  peace. 

How  could  she  have  gone  from  the  Coliseum 
back  to  the  Atrium?  That  too  would  have 
been  unbearable. 

Youth  and  hope  cling  to  life,  and  youth  she 
had.  From  human  hope  she  had  parted  in  the 
moments  during  which  she  had  been  striving 
to  enforce  obedience  in  her  leaden  limbs. 
Martyrdom  she  had  accepted  deliberately 
when  she  deliberately  declared  that  she  was  a 
Christian.  What  form  death  might  take  she 
had  had  no  time  to  wonder. 

Would  she  be  a martyr  still?  Would  God 
accept  her  as  one?  She  had  meant  to  pay  the 


FAUSTULA 


369 


price ; it  was  not  her  fault  that  they  would  kill 
her  for  a crime  other  than  that  of  being  a 
Christian;  and  of  that  crime  she  was  wholly 
innocent. 

Alone  in  her  dark  prison  she  learnt  much  of 
Him,  with  none  but  Him  for  teacher.  Of  His 
nature  Fabian  had  told  her  enough;  and  many 
months  had  gone  by,  since  then,  during  which 
she  had  by  sure  degrees  built  up  a true  idea  of 
His  nature.  Of  the  details  of  the  faith  which 
she  had  said,  before  them  all  in  the  Coliseum, 
was  hers,  she  knew  but  little ; but  God  Himself 
she  knew.  And  hour  by  hour  in  her  cell  she 
grew  into  a deeper  knowledge. 

Her  trial,  or  trials,  were  not  public,  but  took 
the  form  of  repeated  private  examinations. 
They  were  very  tedious,  and  utterly  useless, 
for  their  conclusion  was  foregone  from  the  be- 
ginning. 

Why  they  should  have  troubled  to  examine 
her  she  could  not  tell,  for  she  knew  all  along 
that  they  meant  to  kill  her.  What  could  it 
matter  to  them  whether  she  admitted  her  guilt 
or  no? 

But  she  never  would  admit  it.  And  her 
stubbornness  angered  them. 

“You  deny  that  you  consented  to  marry  this 
man?” 

“He  never  spoke  to  me  of  marriage.” 


370 


FAUSTULA 


“He  speaks  plainly  of  marrying  you  in  the 
letter  found  upon  him  when  he  was  arrested.” 
“I  never  saw  any  letter.  If  there  is  any 
such  you  had  it — not  I.  To  me  he  never 
spoke  of  marriage.” 

“He  spoke  to  you  of  love.” 

She  understood  them  to  mean,  as  they  did 
mean,  human  love  and  she  said  firmly: 

“No,  never.”  ' 

“That  is  false.  There  was  a witness ” 

“A  spy.  I can  guess.  Dirce,  the  Greek 
slave.” 

They  supposed  her  to  be  urging  that  a 
Greek  slave  could  not  be  a witness  against  her, 
a Roman  of  the  highest  class  and  rank.  She 
did  not  even  think  of  it. 

“A  witness — your  guessing  the  name  is  use- 
less and  idle.  You  never  saw  her.” 

They  meant  her  to  conclude  that  the  witness 
was  a stranger  unknown  to  herself,  but  she 
said  coldly: 

“Of  course  not.  Had  I seen  her  she  would 
not  have  spied  again.” 

“You  admit  there  was  that  on  which  her 
spying,  as  you  call  it,  would  have  been  danger- 
ous. In  her  hearing  this  lover  of  yours  spoke 
often  of  love.  Once  she  heard  him  say  that 
such  love  was  beyond  the  imagination  even  of 


FAUSTULA 


371 


all  those  who  had  written  of  the  loves  of  the 
gods.  And  he  added  that  it  was  all  yours.” 
“He  told  me  of  the  love  of  Christ:  and  he 
said  that  it  was  such  as  no  man’s  imagination 
could  invent.  He  did  say  that  it  was  for  me 
too:  of  any  love  of  his  own  for  me  he  never 
spoke.” 

“He  told  you  that  he  thought  of  you  con- 
tinually, day  and  night.” 

“I  remember.  Yes.  The  first  time  he  met 
me  there,  by  the  sea.  He  spoke  of  our  long 
absence  and  bade  me  not  suppose  he  had  for- 
gotten me.  He  knew  me  when  I was  a child, 
and  he  had  always  been  good  to  me.  It 
grieved  him  that  he  could  in  no  way  help  me, 
and  it  grieved  him  that  he  should  have  had  no 
means  of  showing  that  at  least  he  remembered 
me,  and  would  serve  me  if  he  could.  Of 
course  he  loved  me;  but  what  good  can  it  do, 
all  this  talking?  you  would  never  understand.” 
“We  understand  that  the  man  was  your 
lover,  and  you  knew  it,  and  that  you  met  him 
many  times?.” 

“He  was  not  my  lover.  I have  had  no 
lover.  And  you  know  nothing  about  love. 
You  have  killed  him,  and  you  are  going  to  kill 
me:  is  not  that  enough?  Why  do  you  come 
here  talking?” 


372 


FAUSTULA 


“You  must  not  speak  so  to  us.  We  come 
here,  not  ‘talking,’  but  to  judge  you.  If  you 
do  not  answer  our  questions  we  may  cause  you 
to  be  tortured.” 

“Do  I not  answer  your  questions?  But  you 
want  me  to  say  I have  done  that  which  I have 
not  done.  If  it  would  save  my  life,  and  you 
know  well  that  it  would  not  save  my  life,  I 
would  not  do  that.” 

They  asked  her  many  questions,  and  she  an- 
swered most  of  them.  Some  she  would  not 
answer  lest  they  might  injure  the  living. 

“Did  anyone  know  of  your  meeting  this  man 
by  the  seashore?” 

“Evidently  Dirce  did.” 

“Did  any  of  the  Vestals  know?” 

“No.” 

“There  was  one  with  whom  you  were  inti- 
mate— the  Vestal  Claudia ” 

“When  I was  a novice  she  instructed  me. 
And  for  many  years  she  was  kind  to  me.  For 
a long  time  there  has  been  no  intimacy  between 
us.” 

“Why?” 

“Because  I could  not  be  intimate  with  any 
Vestal  after  I had  resolved  to  be  a Christian. 
To  be  intimate  means  to  speak  of  what  is  in 
your  mind : how  could  I speak  of  wishing  to  be 
a Christian  to  a Vestal?” 


FAUSTULA  373 

“You  wanted  to  be  a Christian  because  your 
lover  was  a Christian.” 

“I  had  no  lover.” 

“You  say  yourself  the  man  loved  you.” 

“I  will  say  too  that  I loved  him.  I love  him 
now — though  you  have  killed  him.  And  he 
would  love  me  were  he  alive  after  you  had 
killed  me.  But  he  was  not  my  lover.  You 
know  nothing  about  it.” 

“Love!  Everybody  knows  about  that. 
What  do  you  take  us  for?” 

“I  take  you  for  what  you  are.  And  I am 
quite  certain  that  you  know  nothing  at  all 
about  it.” 

“Do  you  think  it  will  help  you  to  speak  thus 
insolently?” 

“I  know  well  that  nothing  will  help  me.  It 
is  not  so  insolent  for  me,  a girl  whom  you  are 
going  to  kill,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  as  it  is  for 
you  to  come  here  and  try  and  make  me  say  I 
have  done  what  you  accuse  me  of.” 

On  another  day  they  reminded  her  that  she 
had  during  a former  examination  plainly 
spoken  of  her  intention,  during  many  months, 
of  becoming  a Christian. 

“That  is  quite  true.  I have  intended  it  for 
a long  time.  In  the  Coliseum  I said  I was 
one.” 

“Perhaps  no  one  heard  you.  If  you  repu- 


374 


FAUSTULA 


diate  those  words  and  promise  to  repudiate 
Christ — what  if  we  were  to  beseech  the  clem- 
ency of  the  Emperor,  and  he  should  con- 
sent to  commute  the  penalty  of  death?  He 
might,  on  our  petition,  allow  it  to  be  supposed 
that  you  had  been  executed  in  secret,  and  per- 
mit you  to  be  sent  into  exile — say  at  Panda- 
taria.” 

“Then  Christ  would  repudiate  me.” 

“You  are  determined  to  die?  You  know 
how  it  will  be?” 

“I  know  that  you  are  determined  to  kill  me: 
and  I know  how  you  will  do  it.” 

“It  is  not  we  who  kill  you;  but  the  law  of 
Rome.  Or  rather  it  is  you  who  kill  yourself 
by  your  offence  against  the  law  of  Rome.” 

“The  offence  you  charge  against  me  I have 
not  committed;  but  neither  had  he  whom  you 
have  killed  already.” 

“You  accuse  us  of  unjustly  condemning  you 
to  death!” 

“I  accuse  you  of  nothing.  It  is  you  who 
accuse  me.  Are  you  not  ashamed  to  come 
here  day  by  day  and  accuse  me  of  such  a 
thing?  What  must  you  think  of  your  own 
daughters?” 

“I  have  no  daughters,  I am  childless,”  said 
one  of  them. 


FAUSTULA  375 

“And  I have  no  daughters — only  one  son,” 
said  the  other. 

“For  that  I thank  God,”  Faustula  said 
boldly.  “I  would  not  be  your  daughter  if 
that  would  soften  your  heart  and  save  my  life. 
My  father  is,  like  you,  a heathen;  and  it  was 
he  who  sent  me  to  be  a Vestal.  Ask  him  if  he 
believes  this  thing  of  which  you  accuse  me, 
and  you  will  see.  But  you  durst  not  ask 
him.” 

“You  will  not  even  say  that  you  are  not  a 
Christian?” 

“I  do  not  know  if  I have  the  right  to  call 
myself  a Christian.  I have  not  even  been 
baptized.  But,  if  Christ  will  let  me,  I call  my- 
self by  His  august  name.” 


CHAPTER  XLI 


For  a very  long  time  F austula  was  in 
prison.  After  many  weary  examina- 
tions they  told  her  that  they  found  her  guilty, 
and  that  she  must  die. 

“That  I knew  always,”  she  answered 
stoutly.  “No,  not  always.  I remember 

when  I knew  it  first.  It  was  worse  then.  I 
was  not  five  years  old,  and,  till  then,  I had 
thought  that  life  would  go  on  for  ever.  I al- 
most wanted  to  die  at  once,  since  it  must  come ; 
but  that  was  long  ago.  I got  used  to  it  as  you 
are  used  to  it,  who  are  many  years  older  than 
me.” 

One  of  them  looked  almost  spitefully  at  her 
for  saying  this,  as  though  the  words  were  ill- 
omened.  But  he  lived  for  a quarter  of  a cen- 
tury. The  other  took  her  sharply  up. 

“Yes.  We  are  mortal.  Death,  however, 
need  not  bring  shame.” 

“No.  That  comes  with  life.” 

“Your  death  will  be  shameful.  All  Rome, 
even  the  Christians,  will  think  shame  of  one 
who  dies  for  your  offence.” 

“The  Christians  of  Rome  hear  lies,  and  may 

376 


FAUSTULA 


377 


believe  them.  The  God  of  the  Christians 
knows  all  things.  From  Him  you  will  hear 
the  truth.” 

He  heard  it  long  before  Faustula  was  dead. 
Many  days  before  they  buried  her  alive  his 
ashes  were  laid  beside  his  father’s  upon  the 
Appian  Way. 

“You  know,”  he  bade  her  remember,  “that 
you  will  buried  alive.” 

“I  was  buried  alive  more  than  a dozen  years 
ago,”  she  told  him.  “What  I have  borne  since 
I was  less  than  ten  years  old  I can  bear  for  a 
week.” 

She  remembered  well  the  time  when  she  had 
said  this  before — to  Claudia,  soon  after  she 
had  become  a novice,  that  night  as  they  kept 
watch  together  in  the  temple  beside  the  Sacred 
Fire.  It  was  truer  now.  She  would  rather 
go  to  her  living  tomb  in  the  Campus  Sceler- 
atus  than  back  to  the  Atrium  Vestas. 

She  supposed  that  the  execution  of  her  sen- 
tence would  come  speedily,  and  she  asked  her 
examiners  when  it  would  be. 

“The  day  is  not  fixed,”  they  told  her.  But 
this  very  phrase  made  her  think  that  it  was 
only  a question  of  days. 

She  only  asked  one  favour,  and  the  refusal 
of  it  did  not  surprise  her. 


378 


FAUSTULA 


“May  a Christian  priest  come  to  me?”  she 
asked.  “I  do  not  mean  to  see  me  alone;  the 
jailor  could  be  present.” 

“Assuredly  no  Christian  priest  will  be  al- 
lowed to  see  you.  It  is  an  insolent  request. 
The  scandal  of  your  professing  Christianity 
must  be  concealed.” 

Nevertheless  it  was  known  among  the  Chris- 
tians and  a priest  had  made  very  earnest  ef- 
forts to  gain  admission  to  her. 

“I  did  not  suppose  you  would  grant  it.  I 
asked  because  I thought  I ought  to  ask,  since 
I have  never  been  baptized.” 

“So  that  even  your  own  new  God  will  not 
recognize  you  when  you  are  dead.  Only  the 
baptized  belong  to  him.” 

“I  do  belong  to  Him.  In  my  own  blood  He 
will  baptize  me.” 

“How  can  He  baptize  you?  He  has  been 
dead  more  than  three  hundred  years.” 

“Three  hundred  years  after  you  are  dead 
He  will  be  alive  still.” 

At  last  they  left  her,  and  she  saw  them  no 
more.  For  that  she  was  thankful;  their  com- 
ing had  always  been  as  wearisome  as  it  was 
fruitless.  Before  they  left  that  last  time  they 
explained  to  her  that  she  now  possessed  noth- 
ing. Her  money  and  jewels  were  forfeited: 
she  was  not  even  a Roman  any  more.  This 


FAUSTULA 


379 


made  her  smile  to  herself,  for  she  had  never 
given  a thought  to  the  money  she  had  left  be- 
hind in  her  room.  It  was  all  of  it  saved  since 
she  had  been  a Vestal.  She  had  never  had 
any  of  her  own.  There  would  have  been  more 
of  it  but  that  Tatius  had  more  than  once  writ- 
ten to  her  for  loans,  which  he  had  never  repaid: 
and  her  father  had  sometimes  done  the  same. 
She  had  sent  him  all  she  had  on  each  of  these 
occasions,  blushing  as  she  wrote  the  few  words 
in  which  she  had  told  him  that  he  was  welcome 
to  it.  She  did  not  think  he  could  have  asked 
her  had  they  been  in  the  habit  of  meeting,  and 
that  had  been  another  reason  why  she  scarcely 
ever  went  to  his  house. 

It  did  not  even  occur  to  her  that  if  she  had 
had  money  in  her  prison  her  jailors  might  have 
treated  her  better.  They  knew  that  she  was 
penniless  and  could  neither  bribe  nor  reward 
them. 

Her  judges  went  away  and  she  supposed 
that  very  soon  the  harshness  of  her  jailors 
would  end,  as  everything  earthly  would  end. 
It  was  very  strange  to  think  that  in  a few 
days  she,  who  knew  so  little  of  Him,  would 
be  face  to  face  with  Him  Who  had  done 
so  much  for  her,  and  for  Whom  she  had  done 
all  she  could,  though  it  was  almost  nothing. 
It. seemed  to  her  that  it  would  be  as  when  a 


380 


FAUSTULA 


blind  person  dies  to  open  his  eyes  in  heaven 
and  see  for  the  first  time. 

Once,  in  the  night,  she  woke  from  a dread  of 
one  of  the  old  days  at  Civitella — the  day  on 
which  she  had  heard  that  Melania  was  dead: 
and  the  thin  fingers  pressed  under  her  cheek 
were  wet,  for  she  had  wept  in  her  sleep. 

With  one  of  them  she  traced  on  her  brow 
the  sign  of  man’s  redemption. 

“I  cannot  baptize  myself,”  she  said,  “but  I 
can  mark  myself  with  the  Cross.  He  will  rec- 
ognize it.” 

Her  tears  soon  dried.  She  had  never  shed 
any  for  herself  or  for  her  cruel,  ghastly  fate. 

“Ah,  Melania,”  she  thought,  “the  mischief  I 
and  mine  have  brought  to  you  and  yours.” 

As  she  said  this  to  herself  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  heard,  close  beside  her  in  the  darkness, 
a sweet,  almost  soundless  laugh,  that  was  like 
the  laugh  of  a flower  in  the  night.  It  was  Me- 
lania’s. There  had  never  been  anything 
mocking,  anything  irreverent  in  Melania’s 
laughing,  as  there  is  in  the  laughter  of  most  of 
us.  It  had  never  expressed  any  gibe,  but  only 
a tender  good-will  and  a serene  happy  cer- 
tainty that  sorrow  itself  is  no  more  than  the 
shadow  of  a great  joy. 

Faustula  lay  long  awake,  and  the  gracious 
memory  of  Melania  was  like  a woman’s  pres- 


FAUSTULA 


381 


ence  sent  to  her.  It  seemed  but  a few  hours 
since  she  had  last  heard  her  voice,  and  its  echo 
was  dearer  to  her  now  than  the  living  tones 
of  the  voice  had  been.  But  it  was  strange 
how  unforgotten  the  least  of  its  gentle  ca- 
dences was  after  so  many  years.  As  a blind 
child  she  could  never  understand,  as  she  under- 
stood at  last,  the  sweetness  of  Melania’s 
beauty.  She  was  a woman  herself  now,  and 
she  sat  up  in  her  chains  conning  all  the  loveli- 
ness of  a face  known  long  ago,  and  known 
only  now. 

Sometimes  she  almost  slept,  and  dream  and 
thought  met  in  a tender  caress.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  Melania,  in  her  happy  place,  had 
begged  of  the  King  licence  to  leave  Heaven’s 
brightness  to  carry  down  a gleam  of  it  into 
the  dark  of  this  deep  cell  of  earth.  And,  as 
Melania  bowed  herself  in  supplication,  another 
girlish  figure  was  bent  beside  hers. 

“Go  you,”  the  answer  came,  “I  follow.” 

And  Faustula  felt  their  presence.  No 
hand  touched  her,  and  no  words  of  human  syl- 
labling were  uttered  in  her  ear,  but  she  was 
conscious  of  such  love  and  comfort  as  Melania 
and  Clodia  would  have  brought  her. 

Her  old  ingratitude  to  Clodia  had  vexed  her 
often;  nothing  vexed  her  now.  In  love  is  no 
vexing;  that  belongs  to  the  petty,  the  thorns 


382  FAUSTULA 

we  set  ourselves  upon  the  stalk  of  the  divine 
perfect  flower. 

None  leave  heaven.  If  any  come  thence  to 
us  they  bring  it  with  them.  Clodia  was  not 
there  to  vaunt  unrequited  tenderness,  but  to 
witness  of  tenderness  beside  which  hers  for  her 
foster-baby  would  show  but  gross  and  selfish. 

And  yet  from  heaven  itself  she  came  with  a 
petition  in  her  hand,  a plea  for  one  who  had 
hurt  her  worse  than  he  had  hurt  Faustula. 
There  was  no  word — the  battle  of  speech  dies 
with  death  into  the  great  silence  that  is  peace. 

Nevertheless  Faustula  thought  of  her  father 
and  drew  him  also  under  the  seamless  robe  of 
Christ’s  unreasoned  love. 

Long  ago,  when  first  he  had  flattered  her 
and  spoiled  her,  she  had  been  ready  to  adore 
him  and  call  him  perfect.  Long,  long  ago  she 
had  seen  all  his  tattered  imperfections,  and 
had  known  that  he  had  cast  her  off,  for  very 
cowardice.  Ah,  how  hard  it  is  for  a brave 
woman  to  forgive  the  cowardice  of  a man ! 

His  poltroonery  had  made  her  braver;  but 
it  had  set  a gulf  between  them  across  which 
she  could  only  look  with  scornful  eyes,  and 
would  not  look  at  all.  He  was  worse  than 
dead,  for  he  had  never  existed  as  she  had  im- 
agined him. 

Fatherless,  motherless,  brotherless,  sisterless. 


FAUSTULA 


383 


she  had  stood  alone  in  all  the  freezing  black- 
ness of  a life  that  had  never  found  love  or 
bravery  anywhere  among  those  on  whom  she 
had  any  natural  claim.  She  had  disinherited 
her  father,  as  he  had  disinherited  her,  with  a 
chill  acceptance  of  ugly,  unalterable  fact.  For 
years  she  had  never  thought  of  him  with  bitter- 
ness or  with  scorn,  but  only  because  she  would 
not  choose  to  think  of  him  at  all. 

During  her  imprisonment  she  had  not  in  her 
thoughts  reproached  him  that  he  had  left  her 
alone.  She  had  lost  all  count  of  him,  and 
never  accused  him.  It  is  the  living  whom  we 
upbraid,  and  he  had  been  long  dead  to  her. 

And  now,  in  silence,  Clodia  pleaded  for  him, 
and  her  unheard  pity  and  tenderness  were 
heard. 

Forgiveness  does  not  depend  on  the  claim  of 
those  who  cry  for  it,  but  on  those  who  hear. 
Faustulus  had  done  nothing;  Faustula’s  heart 
did  it  all,  grown  pupil  of  the  Heart  that  God  be- 
came man  to  lift  from  earth  to  heaven.  All 
human  pardon  that  is  real  expresses  itself  not 
in  terms  of  concession  but  in  those  of  suppli- 
cation. The  moment  we  are  ready  to  forgive 
we  ourselves  beg  for  forgiveness;  and  Faus- 
tula  now,  from  her  prison,  besought  pardon 
of  the  father  but  for  whom  she  could  never 
have  come  to  it.  She  upbraided  herself  for  the 


384 


FAUSTULA 


cold  aloofness  she  had  held  from  him:  that  she 
had  in  fact,  thrown  him  from  her,  as  he  had 
thrown  her  from  his  hearth.  This  she  did 
without  any  juggling  with  false  excuses  for 
him:  of  such  she  was  incapable.  It  was  not  a 
matter  of  the  mind  but  of  the  heart.  There 
was  no  adroit  glossing  of  his  faults,  but  a gen- 
tle obliteration  of  them  in  the  sense  of  what 
her  own  faults  had  been. 

Of  course  she  was  less  than  just  to  herself. 
For  thirteen  years,  she  accused  herself,  she 
had  never  shown  him  love.  She  would  not 
now  remember  that  every  sign  of  such  love 
must  have  been  from  her  a reproach  stronger 
than  any  word  could  have  been.  Those  who 
forgive  generously  will  see  no  more  the  faults 
they  are  forgiving.  With  this  entire  oblivion 
of  all  sense  of  grudge  against  her  father,  this 
gentle  silent  plea  for  his  forgiveness  of  her, 
there  came  a great  sweetness  and  peace. 

As  she  thought  of  him  she  prayed  for  him, 
and  begged  that  he  might  be  comforted. 
What  had  fallen  on  her  would  fall  heavily  on 
him ; not  merely  because  it  would  be  a disgrace 
to  his  name — of  that  disgrace  she  did  not  ac- 
cuse herself  because  she  was  not  guilty — but 
because  of  something  better,  because  she  was, 
in  truth,  dear  to  him.  With  the  faultless  in- 
stinct of  generosity  Faustula  was  certain  that 


FAUSTULA 


385 


her  father  was  not  thinking  of  any  shame  her 
fate  would  bring  to  himself,  but  simply  of 
what  that  fate  was  in  itself.  She  thought  of 
him  with  a pitiful  compassion,  and  with  a 
strange  unhesitating  certainty  that  he  was 
thinking  entirely  of  her.  She  was  now  much 
more  sorry  for  him  than  for  herself : and,  as  it 
troubled  her  that  she  could  send  him  no  word 
of  comfort  or  kindliness,  she  asked  God  to  be 
Himself  her  messenger.  She  was  sure  that 
God  had  sent  the  thought  of  him  to  her.  He 
must  also  take  the  thought  of  her  to  him  and 
take  it  as  she  meant  it.  . . . 

She  had  for  many  hours  been  sitting  up 
awake  in  her  chains,  though  it  was  night  still. 
In  her  ears  was  that  sound,  like  the  hoarse  mur- 
mur of  the  sea  heard  in  a shell;  and  now  it  was 
mixed  with  a thudding  noise,  like  galloping 
hoofs.  But  the  sounds  were  in  her  ears  only. 
The  grave  itself  could  not  be  more  silent  than 
her  cell. 


CHAPTER  XLII 


When  they  had  told  her  that  the  day  was 
not  yet  fixed  on  which  her  sentence 
would  be  carried  out,  she  had  supposed  it  to  be 
merely  a question  of  days.  But  many  weeks 
went  by  and  nothing  happened.  It  seemed  as 
though  she  was  forgotten,  “like  a dead  man 
out  of  mind/’  Sometimes  she  would  awake 
suddenly  in  the  night,  and  sit  up,  asking  her- 
self if  she  were  already  in  her  grave.  Some- 
times she  would  ask  a question  of  her  jailor, 
and  he  would  answer : 

“Time  enough.  There  is  no  hurry.  It  is 
all  fixed.  It  is  tedious  answering  the  same 
question  continually.  Come,  don’t  be  te- 
dious.” 

It  was  quite  true  that  her  doom  had  been 
fixed.  The  reason  for  the  present  delay  was 
this : — Faustulus  had  very  stoutly  pressed  that 
the  Emperor  Julian’s  pleasure  should  be  taken 
before  execution  of  the  sentence;  and  some  pa- 
gan patricians  of  high  rank  held  this  view  also. 
Probably  what  influenced  them  was  the  feeling 
that  such  a punishment  inflicted  on  the  daugh- 
ter of  one  of  their  own  order  would  injure  the 
prestige  of  the  whole  patrician  body. 

386 


FAUSTULA 


387 


The  Christian  patricians  were  on  this  side 
too,  but  their  opinion  carried  less  than  its 
proper  weight  because  it  was  put  down  to  mere 
indifF erence  as  to  the  honour  of  the  gods.  And 
there  were  many  pagan  patricians  who  urged 
that  the  punishment  ought  to  be  carried  out  at 
once  without  any  reference  to  Augustus.  All 
the  more  so  as  the  condemned  girl  had  added  to 
her  off  ence  by  proclaiming  herself  a Christian. 
It  was  useless  to  argue  against  them  that  the 
punishment  was  one  of  antique  barbarity,  and 
had  not  for  a long  time  been  inflicted.  That, 
they  said,  was  merely  to  say  that  such  crimes 
had  always  been  very  rare — a fact  creditable 
to  the  Vestals,  but  not  one  that  made  this  Ves- 
tal’s offence  less  heinous. 

It  was  urged  that  had  the  matter  occurred  a 
couple  of  years  ago  it  would  have  been  entirely 
improbable  that  the  execution  would  have  been 
permitted  by  the  Emperor:  but  they  only  re- 
torted, “He  was  a Christian  and  very  likely 
would  have  cared  nothing  for  a law  founded  in 
our  ancient  respect  for  the  gods:  but  the  Em- 
peror is  now  himself  a servant  of  the  gods.” 
“Then  why  not  take  his  pleasure?” 

“Because  the  pretence  of  wishing  to  take  his 
pleasure  is  only  an  attempt  to  make  him  appear 
less  clement — a scheme  to  let  the  death  of  this 
false  Vestal  seem  to  lie  at  his  door.  It  would 


388 


FAUSTULA 


not  be  fair  to  him.  No  doubt  he  would  wish 
the  law  to  be  enforced,  but  why  should  he  have 
the  disagreeable  duty  of  saying,  ‘Let  her  die’?” 

The  City  Prsefect  was  strong  for  the  im- 
mediate execution  of  the  sentence,  so  were  the 
Flamens  and  the  members  of  the  other  sacred 
colleges.  But  some  senators  sided  with  Faus- 
tulus,  and  at  last  there  was  a compromise. 

No  official  appeal  to  the  Emperor  would 
be  made,  and  the  sentence  would  stand  for  ex- 
ecution, but  eighty  days  would  be  given  to 
Faustulus,  during  which  he  might,  if  he  chose, 
himself  lay  the  matter  before  Julian;  unless, 
within  that  time,  he  returned  with  express  coun- 
ter-orders from  Augustus,  Faustula  must 
suff  er. 

On  that  very  day  Faustulus  left  Rome  for 
Constantinople,  though  he  could  not  even  know 
for  certain  that  he  wo^ld  find  the  Emperor 
there — some  said  Julian  would  at  once  proceed 
with  the  Persian  War : others  that  he  would  not 
do  so  till  after  the  winter.  This  uncertainty 
nearly  drove  Faustulus  mad.  If  Julian  should 
have  left  Constantinople  for  the  East  he  could 
not  hope  to  be  in  time.  At  best  the  time  was 
very  short.  And  poor  Faustulus  was  always 
short  of  money.  He  even  asked  his  wife  to 
lend  him  some,  for  he  knew  well  she  had  a se- 


FAUSTULA 


389 


cret  hoard;  but  she  refused  with  a cold  anger 
against  which  all  pleading  would  be  plainly  in- 
efF ectual.  Then  he  did  what  was  still  more  re- 
pugnant and  betook  himself  to  Tatius,  but 
equally  in  vain.  Tatius  protested  that  he  had 
no  ready  money  himself,  and  assured  his  father 
that  he  had  been  obliged  to  borrow  for  his  own 
needs. 

“I  would  be  glad  to  borrow  again,”  he  de- 
clared, “but  the  person  who  lent  me  what  I 
needed  can  do  no  more  for  me.” 

Meanly  as  Faustulus  had  always  thought  of 
his  son  he  did  not  guess  that  it  was  from  Faus- 
tula  herself  that  Tatius  had  borrowed. 

As  he  walked  homeward  he  met  Claudia  be- 
ing carried  to  the  Atrium,  and  the  sight  of  her 
hurt  him  afresh.  Often  and  often  in  recent 
years  he  had  seen  Faustula  thus  carried  in  her 
litter,  himself  unseen  by  her.  He  drew  back 
and  almost  hid  himself  behind  one  of  the  col- 
umns of  the  Basilica  Julia  till  the  Vestal  was 
out  of  sight.  Then  he  crept  out  and  turned 
into  the  Vicus  Tuscus,  where  he  fell  in  with  an 
old  acquaintance  long  since  forgotten,  who, 
however,  remembered  and  accosted  him. 

“Yes,”  he  said,  “I  am  Faustulus:  but,  par- 
don me,  I do  not  remember  you,  and  I am 
pressed  by  a very  urgent  matter.  ...” 


890 


FAUSTULA 


In  old  days  he  had  been  ever  ready  to  stop 
and  chat  with  anyone,  but  to-day  he  had  no 
heart  for  it. 

“Nay,  it  is  I that  should  ask  your  forgive- 
ness. It  is  natural  you  should  not  remember 
me.  We  only  met  once  many  years  ago — I 
am  Domnio,  a priest  who  used  to  be  at  Civitella. 

Faustulus  recalled  the  meeting  well  and  rec- 
ollected that  he  had  liked  the  young  priest.  He 
returned  his  greeting  courteously,  but  still  it 
was  evident  that  he  wished  to  move  on,  and  was 
in  no  vein  for  talk. 

“Do,  I pray  you,  forgive  my  importunity,” 
Domnio  begged,  “I  do  not  force  myself  idly 
upon  you.  I want  to  be  of  use.  We  who  are 
Christians  know  what  has  happened,  and  I have 
been  following  you  for  the  sake  of  any  chance 
of  speaking  with  you.  All  of  us  are  concerned 
in  this  matter  that,  perhaps,  you  think  should 
concern  you  only.  ...” 

Faustulus  understood  his  meaning  very  well, 
and  suffered  him  to  go  on. 

“We  know  that  they  have  given  you  eighty 
days  in  which  to  seek  the  Emperor  and  appeal 
to  his  clemency.  ...” 

“Yes.  And  I have  lost  part  of  one  of  them 
already.  I wish  to  leave  Rome  at  once,  to-day, 
but 


FAUSTULA  891 

“ Again  I pray  your  forgiveness.  But  may 
we  help  in  your  good  work?” 

“How  can  you  help  ?” 

“There  is  only  one  way.  At  Constantinople 
noney  goes  far  in  such  matters.  I do  not  mean 
with  Augustus  himself — but  before  you  can  get 
at  him.  May  we  help  in  that  way?” 

Faustulus  felt  sure  that  this  was  only  the 
man’s  delicate  manner  of  getting  to  the  subject 
of  money  in  such  a fashion  as  might  avoid  of- 
fence, and  he  was  touched  as  well  as  grateful. 

“Yes,”  he  said,  “money  is  necessary;  and  I 
have  been  going  about  in  search  of  it.” 

“We  shall  be  your  debtors  if  you  will  let  us 
help  in  this  way,”  Domnio  assured  him,  and 
then  explained  that  what  he  had  to  give  was 
from  the  Pope  himself.  It  was,  Faustulus 
found,  enough  to  take  him  to  Constantinople 
and  bring  him  back  again.  So  that  sordid  diffi- 
culty was  at  an  end;  and  that  night  he  left 
Rome  on  horseback,  intending  to  ride  to  An- 
cona, whence  he  hoped  to  get  passage  on  some 
ship.  As  he  galloped  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
could  hear  F austula’s  voice  close  in  his  ear,  and 
its  tones  were  sweet  and  gentle,  gentler  than  he 
had  ever  known  them.  Her  image  had  con- 
stantly during  many  years  risen  before  the  vi- 
sion of  his  mind  when  he  had  been  alone,  and 
its  mien  was  always  cold  and  full  of  a scornful 


892 


FAUSTULA 


aloofness.  It  arose  again  now,  so  plainly  that 
he  could  almost  think  he  really  saw  it  with  his 
eyes,  but  his  daughter’s  lovely  face  no  longer 
carried  any  look  of  proud  reproach.  It  was 
as  white  as  the  moonlight,  but  more  beautiful 
than  ever,  and  all  it  expressed  was  love  and  ten- 
derness and  peace. 

“She  forgives  me,”  he  told  himself.  Ah,  if 
he  could  forgive  himself. 

He  did  not,  as  he  might  have  done,  remind 
himself  that  for  the  first  time  in  all  his  life  he 
was  setting  about  a hard  and  long  task  for  the 
sake  of  someone  else.  He  thought  it  was  only 
because  Faustula  must  have  pardoned  his  of- 
fence against  her  that  his  heart  felt  lighter  than 
it  had  ever  been  before. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 


Faustulus  set  forth  on  his  long  and  toil- 
some journey  with  only  one  attendant, 
and  that  one  he  had  chosen  at  the  last  moment, 
or  rather  had  accepted  almost  without  choice. 
An  hour  or  two  before  he  started  they  had  told 
him  that  the  man  Maltro,  who  had  been  once 
his  slave,  begged  earnestly  to  speak  with  him, 
and  he  had  consented  to  see  him. 

“Let  me  go  with  you,”  Maltro  had  besought 
him.  “I  know  whither  you  are  going  and  I 
shall  be  more  useful  to  you  than  any  of  your 
slaves,  for  I can  talk  Greek  as  well  as  I can  talk 
Latin : and  on  a journey  I shall  be  of  use  where 
a common  slave  would  only  be  in  your  way.” 
This  was  quite  true  and  Faustulus  was  in- 
clined to  consent.  He  paused  a moment  to 
wonder  why  the  man  should  wish  to  come. 
Maltro  watched  his  face  and  knew  well  what 
was  passing  in  his  mind. 

“For  myself  I shall  see  Constantinople,”  he 
said,  “and  how  else  could  I see  New  Rome? 
And  it  would  be  a great  honour  to  serve  your 
Most  Illustrious  Excellency  in  that  which  you 
have  in  hand.” 

Faustulus  yielded;  to  yield  where  it  saved 

393 


394 


FAUSTULA 


trouble  had  always  been  his  habit.  He  must 
have  some  attendant  and  he  did  not  know  how 
he  could  find  a better.  There  was  no  time  to 
seek  one  out. 

He  remembered  very  well  how  Maltro  had 
bought  his  own  freedom,  and  how  at  the  time 
he  had  felt  ashamed  of  not  having  given  it  him : 
but  at  the  moment  he  had  wanted  the  money 
and  had  taken  it.  He  resolved  now  that,  if  he 
gained  what  he  went  to  Constantinople  to  en- 
treat, he  would  give  Maltro  back  the  price 
of  his  freedom  on  their  return. 

For  his  part  Maltro  considered  that  the 
money  was  owing  to  him.  He  had  always 
thought  that  his  freedom  should  have  been 
given  him.  The  price  he  had  paid  for  it  his 
master  had  cheated  him  of.  For  years  he 
had  been  cursing  the  meanness  of  Faustulus 
in  accepting  that  money.  Maltro  had  not 
prospered  in  his  freedom  to  the  extent  that 
he  had  anticipated.  He  had  been,  perhaps, 
too  ambitious  of  speedy  wealth,  and  had  been 
less  prudent  in  his  money-lending  than  of  old. 
Desirous  of  quick  and  large  profits  he  had 
risked  too  much,  and  had  experienced  many 
heavy  losses.  But  his  present  enterprise,  he 
promised  himself,  would  be  doubly  profitable. 
There  were  some  in  Borne  who  strongly  ob- 
jected to  this  appeal  of  Faustulus  to  the  Em- 


FAUSTULA 


395 


peror’s  clemency ; and  they  were  willing  to  pay 
that  its  failure  might  be  assured.  Their 
money  Maltro  had  already  taken,  flatly  re- 
fusing to  undertake  the  task  suggested  unless 
he  received  a full  half  of  his  reward  in  ad- 
vance. But  he  was  determined  to  get  more 
than  that.  From  Faustulus  he  would  recover 
what  he  had  paid,  unjustly  as  he  told  himself, 
for  his  freedom.  If  he  secured  that,  he  might 
return  no  more  to  Borne — that  would  be  as 
events  turned  out.  He  might  come  back  and 
claim  the  reward  of  his  success:  he  might  find 
it  safer  and  more  profitable  to  begin  a new 
career  in  a new  place. 

Meanwhile  he  made  himself,  as  he  had 
promised,  useful,  and  Faustulus  felt  that  he 
had  been  wise  in  accepting  the  man’s  services. 
In  every  little  accident  of  their  journey  Mal- 
tro showed  himself  full  of  energy  and  re- 
source, and  little  accidents  were  continually 
occurring.  Sometimes  Faustulus  thought  he 
would  have  been  utterly  discouraged  and  cast 
down  but  for  the  cheerful,  good-tempered  as- 
sistance and  encouragement  of  his  clever  at- 
tendant. Even  with  it  every  such  small  mis- 
hap wasted  time  intolerably. 

Indolent,  easy-going  people  are  always  the 
least  patient  when  they  are  roused  to  un- 
wonted action,  and  Faustulus,  at  every  delay. 


39  6 


FAUSTULA 


felt  that  if  Maltro  had  not  been  there  he 
would  have  chafed  himself  into  such  a fever  of 
irritation  as  must  almost  have  deprived  him  of 
judgment.  But  Maltro  made  every  accident 
seem  a mere  nothing,  and  cheerfully  made 
light  of  every  delay,  while  his  sympathy  was 
apparent.  It  had  never  once  entered  his  pa- 
tron’s mind  that  the  fellow  could  have  any  ob- 
ject in  wasting  time;  if  anything  went  wrong 
it  only  gave  him  additional  trouble;  and  hour 
by  hour  Faustulus  only  grew  more  convinced 
that  Maltro  had  deeply  at  heart  the  deliver- 
ance of  Faustula.  There  was  nothing  in  this 
to  surprise  the  girl’s  father,  for  to  him  she 
seemed  worthy  of  all  devotion,  and  he  was  sure 
she  had  always  been  kinder  to  the  slaves  than 
her  brother ; besides,  he  guessed  that  so  shrewd 
a man  would  count  on  a great  reward  if  their 
voyage  should  end  successfully. 

But  to  Maltro  Faustulus  gave  only  the  outer 
surface  of  his  mind.  All  his  inward  thought 
during  those  last  few  days  of  his  life,  was  with 
Faustula.  Everything  meant  Faustula.  Ev- 
ery flower  by  the  wayside  flung  up  the  in- 
cense of  her  name  in  its  fragrance:  every 
white  cloud  hung  in  heaven  was  but  a reminder 
of  her  girlish  purity:  in  every  sound  of  whis- 
pering breeze  and  murmuring  brooklet  he 
heard  her  voice,  nor  was  there  any  sadness  in 


FAUSTULA 


397 


it,  but  a serene  courage  that  heartened  him 
too.  He  came  at  last  to  believe  that  his  jour- 
ney could  not  be  in  vain.  The  further  Rome 
was  left  behind  the  less  could  he  bring  himself 
to  think  that  all  Rome’s  malice  would  prevail 
so  monstrously  against  her  helpless  innocence. 

In  the  early  morning  of  the  day  before  that 
in  which  they  should  have  reached  Ancona 
they  came  to  a little  chapel  shut  up  and  de- 
serted. It  was  hard  by  the  road  wayside,  and 
had  been  built  over  the  grave  of  a martyr. 
It  stood  on  a knoll,  almost  hidden  by  dark 
pines;  and  there  were  no  houses  anywhere  in 
sight.  It  was  just  as  they  reached  this  spot 
that  the  last  of  their  accidents  happened. 

“Your  horse,  Most  Excellent  Lord  goes 
lame,”  said  Maltro;  and  Faustulus,  starting 
from  a long  reverie,  at  once  saw  that  Maltro 
was  right.  It  proved,  on  examination,  that  a 
big  nail  was  stuck  fast  in  the  poor  beast’s  foot, 
and  nothing  they  could  do  would  dislodge  it. 

Maltro  asked  if  his  master  would  stay  there 
while  he  rode  on  in  search  of  a smith;  and,  as 
there  seemed  no  better  plan,  Faustulus  agreed 
and  sat  down  by  the  roadside  to  wait. 

It  was  barely  light,  and  the  place  was  very 
desolate,  but  Faustulus,  except  for  his  im- 
patience at  another  delay,  was  not  in  a melan- 
choly humour.  Faustula  herself  seemed 


398 


FAUSTULA 


quite  near  him,  and  her  voice,  almost  audible 
in  his  ear,  bade  him  be  of  good  heart.  It  was 
as  though  she  were  promising  him  that  all 
would  be  well,  and  that,  in  spite  of  every  tire- 
some accident,  his  journey  would  not  in  the 
long  run  fail  of  its  object.  His  horse  was 
grazing  on  the  sweet  herbs  that  grew  by  the 
road,  and  after  a while  Faustulus  arose,  and 
climbed  up  the  steep  bank  towards  the  little 
chapel.  The  door  was  now  open  and  one  or 
two  peasants  were  going  in.  He  followed 
them  unobserved  and  was  about  to  enter  him- 
self when  an  old  man  came  round  the  corner 
of  the  building,  and  seeing  him,  stood  still  in 
anxious  surprise. 

“Never  fear  me,”  said  Faustulus,  with  his 
pleasant  smile,  going  at  once  to  meet  him,  “I 
am  only  a traveller  bound  on  an  errand  that 
should  be  near  your  heart.” 

And  in  a f ew  quiet  and  simple  words  he  told 
the  old  man  what  it  was. 

“You  are  a priest,  are  you  not?  Are  you 
going  to  say  Mass?”  he  asked. 

“Yes,  I am  a priest,  and  I am  going  to  say 
Mass.  I will  offer  up  the  sacrifice  for  the 
purpose  of  your  journey.  Come  in  and  hear 
it,  my  son.” 

“I  will,  if  you  wish  it.  But  I am  not  a 
Christian.” 


FAUSTULA 


399 


“And  you  are  going  all  the  way  to  Con- 
stantinople to  beg  for  the  life  of  your  Chris- 
tian daughter!  That  is  a great  act  of  char- 
ity.” 

“The  first  of  my  life,”  said  Faustulus  with 
a simplicity  that  to  the  old  priest  sounded  like 
humility. 

“Come  in!  come  in!”  he  cried,  “and  hear  the 
holy  Mass.  Pray  to  your  daughter’s  God, 
and  He  will  listen  to  you.  In  these  new  bad 
days  we  have  to  creep  here  by  stealth  for  the 
sacrifice,  as  in  the  old  days  of  the  martyrs. 
This  chapel  commemorates  one — a young  girl 
like  your  own.  Eh ! Eh ! How  strange 
God’s  ways  are!” 

He  moved  a step  or  two  nearer  the  door  and 
Faustulus  said: 

“I  will  come.  But  promise  me  my  daugh- 
ter.” 

“Nay,  nay!  Nevertheless  God  will  give  her 
to  you,  or  give  you  to  her.  Tell  me  now — 
though  it  were  certain  that  this  journey  should 
end  in  death  for  you:  there  are  perils  of  rob- 
bers and  perils  of  shipwreck — would  you  press 
on?” 

“Yes.  What  difference  would  that  make?” 

“ ‘Majorem  caritatem  nemo  habet,’  ” cried 
the  old  priest  again.  “Eh!  Eh!  It  is  won- 
derful. Come  in,  my  son.  Over  the  bones 


400 


FAUSTULA 


of  a martyr-maiden  the  sacrifice  shall  go  up 
for  a maiden  ready  to  be  a martyr,  and  for  the 
father  she  loves.” 

“It  is  true  she  loves  me,”  said  Faustulus,  as 
they  entered  the  little  shabby  chapel  together. 

“Of  course,  of  course,”  murmured  the  old 
man,  leaving  him  to  go  and  vest. 

When  Faustulus  came  out  again  and  went 
to  look  for  his  horse  a girl  was  sitting  near  it,  a 
tall  slim  girl,  clad  in  white,  with  long  red- 
brown  hair. 

“It  is  she,”  he  said  to  himself,  standing 
above  her  at  the  top  of  the  steep  bank. 

But  it  was  not.  She  turned  upward  to  him 
a happy  face,  younger  than  Faustula’s,  and 
more  childlike,  and  he  saw  that  on  the  bosom 
of  her  raiment  was  a broad  red  stain.  There 
was  something  in  the  expression  of  her  face 
that  made  a crystal  dazzle  in  his  eyes — a piti- 
ful surprise,  as  of  a harmless  tender  creature 
who  had  received  an  unlooked  for  hurt  from 
one  she  could  not  have  injured;  and  yet  the 
girlish  look  of  pain  was  merged  into  a more 
wonderful  steady  surprise  of  joy. 

“ ‘Merula  in  Pace,’  ” he  said  to  himself, 
quoting  the  words  graven  over  the  door  of  the 
little  chapel  behind  him. 

When  his  eyes  cleared  again  she  was  there 
no  longer;  but  Maltro,  with  a man  walking 


FAUSTULA  401 

quickly  beside  him,  was  riding  down  the  hilly 
road. 

It  was  on  that  night  that  Maltro  killed  him. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 


Maltro  did  not  go  back  to  Rome.  He  had 
got  much  more  money  than  he  expected, 
and  he  had  more  than  seventy  days  in  which 
he  could,  more  prudently,  insure  his  own  es- 
cape. We  have  no  more  concern  with  him: 
let  him  go  to  his  own  place. 

In  Rome  they  kept  their  word  and  waited 
the  eighty  days  promised  to  Faustula’s  father. 
On  the  last  of  them  she  was  told  that  her  time 
was  come.  In  the  afternoon  of  that  day  she 
was  taken  from  her  second  tomb  to  her  last. 
She  had  never  hated  that  second  tomb  of  her 
prison  as  she  had  hated  the  Atrium  Vestas 
that  had  been  her  first. 

On  the  last  night  of  her  imprisonment  her 
jailor  brought  his  daughter  to  stare  at  her,  a 
wild,  savage  creature,  half  lunatic,  the  only 
child  the  man  had  ever  had.  During  the 
eighteen  years  since  her  birth  she  had  been  the 
misery  of  his  life,  with  her  outrageous  furies 
of  fierce  passion  in  which  she  would  strive 
to  hurt  herself  and  all  who  durst  come  near 
her. 

“There!’’  he  cried,  half  dragging  the  girl 
into  the  cell  and  holding  up  his  lamp  over 

402 


FAUSTULA 


403 


Faustula’s  head,  “Now  are  you  content? 
Why  couldn’t  you  wait  till  to-morrow  and 
then  you’d  see  her  without  making  me  break 
orders?” 

“She  doesn’t  look  . . stammered  the  girl, 
whose  speech  was  thick  and  uncouth  like  that 
of  one  born  dumb  who  had  somehow  been 
taught  to  speak. 

“Look  what?  How  many  looks  do  you 
want?  She's  naught  to  look  at.  Let  one  look 
suffice  then.  Come  away  now!” 

“No.  No.  No!  Let  me  look.” 

And  the  girl  shook  herself  out  of  her  fa- 
ther’s grasp  and  stood  peering  at  Faustula, 
nibbling  at  her  fingers  as  she  stared,  and 
frowning  heavily. 

“If  she’s  so  wicked  why  doesn’t  it  show?” 
she  demanded  of  no  one  in  particular,  cer- 
tainly not  of  her  father,  for  she  paid  no  heed 
to  him  at  all. 

“If  she  is  wicked  that’s  enough,”  he  mut- 
tered crossly;  “never  mind  looks.  You  can’t 
have  everything.” 

Faustula  asked  him  gently: 

“What’s  the  matter  with  her?” 

The  jailor,  behind  the  girl’s  back  touched  his 
forehead. 

“That’s  a lie,”  shrieked  the  wretched  girl, 
turning  fiercely  on  him,  as  if  she  would  tear 


404 


FAUSTULA 


him.  The  fellow  knew  her  strength  well,  and 
started  back  against  the  wall. 

“What  is  your  name?”  asked  Faustula, 
touching  her  with  one  of  her  chained  hands. 

“Nigra,”  the  girl  answered  promptly,  turn- 
ing at  once  at  the  sound  of  Faustula’s  quiet 
voice.  She  was  certainly  black  enough:  hair 
and  eyes  were  black  as  night,  and  there  was  a 
more  unearthly  blackness  in  her  tortured  ex- 
pression. 

“They  call  me  Nigra,”  she  whimpered  spite- 
fully. 

“Nay.  ’Tis  only  a nickname — I never  call 
her  so,”  said  her  father. 

Faustula  saw  that  the  man  loved  her;  and 
she  forgave  him  everything  because  of  it. 

“We  are  both  in  chains,”  she  said  in  a quick 
low  voice;  “the  Lord  Christ  will  break  mine 
soon.  I ask  him  to  break  hers.” 

She  sat  down  again  upon  her  foul  pallet, 
and  drew  the  girl  to  her. 

“Mind!”  cried  the  jailor.  “She’s  as  strong 
as  death.” 

Dura  sicut  mors  dilectio  an  old  voice  had 
said.  Faustula  had  said.  Faustula  had 
never  heard  the  words,  but  she  knew  the  thing. 
In  all  her  life  she  had  been  little  given  to 
kisses  and  caresses,  but  she  drew  the  girl  to  her 
with  her  chained  hands  and  kissed  her. 


FAUSTULA 


405 


“Christe  Salvator,  libera  nos,  catenatas 
servas,”  she  whispered,  and  He  was  not  too 
busy  in  heaven  to  hear  her.  Those  who  asked 
few  favours  are  heard  for  their  nobility. 

“If  there’s  a thing  she  hates,”  the  jailor  al- 
most screamed,  “it  is  being  kissed.  Mind 
yourself!  She  killed  her  mother  for  trying 
to  kiss  her.  I’ve  never  kissed  her  since  she 
was  a little  baby,  and  then  she  spat,  and 
scratched  at  me.” 

“He  loves  you,”  whispered  Faustula;  “go 
and  kiss  him.” 

Nigra  sobbed  and  laughed,  and  scrambled 
down  upon  her  knees,  shuffled  along  the  cold 
floor  and  kissed  her  father’s  ugly  hand  that 
held  the  keys.  Then  she  lifted  her  dark  face 
and  held  it  up  to  him  for  him  to  kiss. 

“I’m  tired,”  she  half  whispered.  “Let  me 
rest  by  her,”  and  she  shambled  back  to  Faus- 
tula and  hid  her  head  on  Faustula’s  neck. 

“What’s  that?”  she  cried  presently,  lifting 
her  face  quickly.  Something  wet  and  warm 
had  fallen  on  it.  “Are  you  crying  because 
you  have  to  die?” 

“No,”  answered  Faustula  simply.  “I  had 
forgotten.”  And  she  drew  the  wild  dark  head 
down  again  upon  her  breast. 

“Come,”  said  the  jailor  gruffly. 

“Go  with  him,”  whispered  Faustula. 


406 


FAUSTULA 


“I  don’t  want.  I want  to  stay.” 

“Go  with  him,  dear;  but  thank  you  for  com- 
ing. All  these  months  I have  seen  none  but 
men.” 

Slowly,  reluctantly,  but  obediently  Nigra 
arose. 

“If  you  bid  me,”  she  said  meekly.  “Wick- 
ed!” she  muttered,  “let’s  all  be  wicked  if  that’s 
it.” 

“I’ve  never  had  my  money,”  Faustula  said 
gently  to  Nigra’s  father.  “I  could  never  give 
you  anything  for  the  trouble  I’ve  been  to  you. 
I cannot  give  you  anything  else.” 

And  she  gave  Nigra  to  her  father. 

“You  know  he  loves  you,”  she  added  to  Ni- 
gra. 

“Yes.  I know  that.” 

“And  you  will  love  him?” 

“Yes.  You  bid  me.  I will  do  all  you  tell 
me.” 

“That’s  all  I can  give,”  Faustula  repeated 
to  her  jailor. 

“Give  her  something,”  Nigra  bade  him. 

“What  can  I?” 

Nigra  looked  at  her  eagerly. 

“A  priest  to  baptize  me,”  pleaded  Faus- 
tula. 

And  Domnio  came  and  baptized  her  that 
very  night. 


FAUSTULA 


407 


Nigra  insisted  on  being  baptized  too,  and 
her  father  suffered  it.  At  first  he  wanted  to 
refuse,  but  Nigra  was  eager  and  imperious. 
Long  afterwards  he  averred  that  while  he  was 
holding  back  his  consent  he  saw  a grinning 
small  black  ape  behind  her,  nodding  and  nod- 
ding, and  making  as  though  to  leap  up  upon 
her  shoulder.  But  he  said  nothing  of  this  at 
the  time  and  neither  Domnio  nor  Faustula 
saw  anything. 

Casca  was  the  name  of  this  jailor.  Though 
he  would  not  allow  the  priest  to  stay  more 
than  a few  minutes,  nor  to  talk  at  all  to  Faus- 
tula except  to  use  the  few  words  necessary  for 
her  baptism,  still  less  to  see  her  for  a moment 
alone,  he  allowed  Nigra  to  stay  with  her  when 
he  led  Domnio  out. 

“It  was  strange  I should  have  found  you 
here  when  I looked  out,”  he  said  when  they  had 
reached  the  outer  door  of  the  prison. 

It  was  not  so  strange  as  he  pretended  to 
think,  for  Domnio  had  hung  about  that  door 
nightly  for  many  months. 

“It  was  by  God’s  mercy,”  said  the  priest 
quietly.  Then  he  drew  out  a gold  coin  for 
Casca  to  take.  Had  he  taken  that  money  I 
doubt  if  he  would  ever  have  become  a Chris- 
tian. He  longed  to  take  it,  but  he  pushed 
Domnio  away  roughly. 


408 


FAUSTULA 


“Go,  go !”  he  muttered  . “You’ve  been  here 
too  long.  Go  right  away  quickly.  No — she 
gave  me  my  girl  and  this  was  all  she  asked  me 
to  give  her — Go,  then!” 

Domnio  would  not  press  the  coin  upon  him, 
but  kept  it  for  a purpose  and  afterwards 
caused  it  to  he  beaten  into  a plain  ring. 

“Now  I will  work  for  you,”  said  Nigra 
when  she  and  Faustula  were  alone  together; 
and  far  into  the  night  she,  who  had  always 
been  lazy  and  useless,  toiled  happily.  Her  fa- 
ther came  to  take  her  away,  but  she  made  him 
bring  her  hack,  and  she  cleaned  the  foul  cell, 
and  brought  fresh  furnishing  of  the  pallet  un- 
changed for  months;  finally  she  brought  clean 
raiment  for  the  prisoner. 

She  made  Faustula  talk  while  she  worked. 
“Tell  me  about  being  a Christian,”  she  de- 
manded, and  Faustula  told  her,  smiling  to  her- 
self a little  as  she  thought  this  was  her  first  ser- 
mon. 

“There’s  one  thing,”  Nigra  said  at  last,  paus- 
ing in  her  busy  labour.  “If  He  is  God  why 
does  He  let  His  enemies  get  the  upper  hand? 
He  could  easily  kill  them  all,  eh?” 

“Yes;  but  He  loves  them  also.” 

“Well,  but  He  can’t  help  loving  you  better 
than  the  City  Praefect.  Why  does  He  let  you 
be  killed?” 


FAUSTULA 


409 


Faustula  laughed  a little  low  laugh  that  was 
like  one  of  Melania’s. 

“Fm  not  dead  yet,”  she  said.  “But  if  He 
does  let  them  it  will  be  a sign — a sign.” 

“Of  what?”  Nigra  asked,  looking  keenly  at 
her,  for  she  saw  a little  flush  on  Faustula’s 
white  face. 

“A  sign  that  He  lets  me  give.  Nigra,  He 
is  not  like  a vulgar  King  that  overloads  serv- 
ants with  big  gifts  but  will  not  stoop  to  take 
anything  of  theirs.” 


CHAPTER  XLV 


When  Faustula  was  taken  from  her 
prison  next  day  into  the  staring  light 
she  could  see  nothing.  For  many  months  she 
had  been  in  darkness,  and  now  the  pitiless  glare 
of  day  seemed  black  to  her.  It  was  not  for  a 
long  time  that  she  could  see  the  crowd,  though 
she  could  hear  it. 

Many  cursed  her,  and  she  heard  that.  Many 
uttered  foul  and  brutal  gibes,  and  them 
also  she  heard.  The  worst  of  these  scoffs,  the 
meanest  and  the  most  cruel,  were  spoken  by 
women.  Many  pitied  her,  but  these  were  not 
bold  to  express  their  compassion,  and  so  she 
could  not  know  of  it. 

Her  appearance  astonished  thousands  of 
those  who  had  come  to  stare  upon  her.  Her 
beauty  was  not  lost,  but  it  was  wholly  changed. 
A flower  grown  in  the  dark  looks  as  she  looked. 
She  was  utterly  white  with  the  singular  clear 
whiteness  of  bleached  wax.  Only  her  hair 
had  any  colour,  and  it  had  altered  its  tint,  which 
was  once  a golden  brown,  and  was  now  like 
pale  gold.  The  light  hurt  her  so  that  she  was 
fain  to  keep  her  eyes  closed.  Nigra  had 
prayed  to  go  with  her,  to  lead  her;  but  that 

410 


FAUSTULA 


411 


had  been  refused,  so  she  walked  alone:  but 
they  moved  slowly,  and  if  she  swerved  to  right 
or  left,  one  of  her  jailors,  or  of  the  escort, 
pushed  her  back  into  the  right  line. 

Only  once  did  any  faint  colour  flush  into 
her  face,  when  she  heard  a filthy  name  given 
to  her;  and  then  she  blushed  for  her  cowardice 
in  shrinking.  It  seemed  to  her  like  grudging 
back  part  of  the  price. 

Some  who  looked  on  were  of  her  own  class, 
and  had  known  her;  and  these  had  told  them- 
selves that  she,  who  had  always  had  a proud 
beauty,  would  hold  herself  with  a colder  pride 
than  ever  to-day.  Not  one  of  them  believed 
her  guilty.  That  she  had  loved  a Christian, 
and  declared  herself  Christian,  they  believed, 
but  they  believed  nothing  shameful  of  her. 
Her  only  protest  could  be  a pride  aloof  and  im- 
pregnable. 

But  the  reality  was  different.  Her  pride 
was  all  gone,  merged  into  a serenity  that  was 
more  astounding  than  mere  patience.  She  was 
a girl,  alone  in  a huge  and  mostly  hostile  crowd. 
Every  step  was  taking  her  to  a doom  that 
those  who  thought  could  not  bear  to  think  of. 
She  was  noble,  and  of  a great  house,  and  her 
ears  were  filled  with  the  foul  gibes  of  a foul 
populace.  But  she  was  undismayed,  and  un- 
armed with  any  shield  of  quiet  scorn. 


412 


FAUSTULA 


To-day  she  seemed,  by  years,  younger  even 
than  she  was.  The  innocence  of  her  face  was 
like  that  of  a mere  child,  and  all  her  noble  se- 
renity could  not  make  her  look  like  a woman. 
She  did  not  smile,  but  on  her  lips  was  a lovely 
light  like  the  dawn  of  a smile  that  would  break 
soon.  Only  once  they  quivered  as  though  for 
tears — when  a blind  girl  in  the  crowd  bewailed 
her  blindness  because  it  cheated  her  of  this  rare 
sight. 

“What  is  the like?”  the  singular  crea- 

ture asked  of  her  mother. 

A heathen  soldier,  idle  in  the  throng,  turned 
fiercely  to  the  girl  as  if  he  would  have  made  her 
dumb  too  if  he  could. 

“Gods!”  he  muttered.  “What  things 
women  are!” 

At  last  they  came  to  the  Campus  Sceleratus 
by  the  Porta  Collina,  that  led  out  to  the  quiet 
country  where  the  Sabines  dwelt,  from  whom 
old  Sabina  liked  to  think  her  race  descended. 
A ladder  led  down  into  the  living  tomb  pre- 
pared for  Faustula,  and  she  must  now  open 
her  eyes  to  climb  down  it.  A soldier  held 
steady  the  top  of  it,  and  for  a moment  her  face 
was  close  to  his. 

“Spare  your  bread  but  eat  it,”  he  whispered. 
“Leave  alone  the  wine.” 


FAUSTULA 


413 


Over  his  shoulder  Faustula  saw  the  crowd  at 
last,  and  yet  she  saw  but  one  face  in  it. 

“It  is  a fancy,”  she  thought;  and  the  fancy 
troubled  her.  Fabian  in  heaven  could  not 
look  thus ; and  he  was  in  heaven.  In  heaven  is 
no  unavailing  protest,  nor  horror,  nor  passion 
of  helpless  anguish. 

Slowly,  encumbered  by  her  dress,  though 
freed  from  chains  now,  she  went  down,  glad 
to  escape  from  the  staring  eyes  above.  Then 
the  ladder  was  drawn  up. 

Immediately  a huge  slab  of  stone  was  laid 
upon  the  hole,  like  a lid,  cemented  down  and 
covered  with  other  blocks  of  stone,  cemented 
too.  Then  earth  was  beaten  down  upon  the 
place  and  sods  of  turf,  and  finally  a guard  was 
set,  and  the  crowd  melted  away  to  its  idle 
pleasures,  and  its  business  of  the  interrupted 
day. 

Faustula’s  tomb  was  larger  than  her  prison 
cell,  and  clean,  new-hewn  out  of  the  soft  rock. 
There  was  a sort  of  bed  in  it  f or  her  last  slum- 
ber, a lamp  and  a cruise  of  oil,  a huge  loaf  of 
good  white  bread,  and  a knife  to  cut  it  with — 
sharper  than  such  knives  are  wont  to  be. 
There  was  also  a stoup  of  wine,  strong  itself, 
and  drugged  more  strongly.  The  poisoned 


414  FAUSTULA 

wine  and  the  sharp  knife  were  meant  for  hea- 
then mercy. 

“It  is  better  than  the  Atrium  Vestse,”  she 
said,  speaking  aloud,  and  only  half  attending 
to  her  words,  for  her  last  look  at  the  upper 
earth  had  troubled  her,  not  because  it  was  the 
last,  but  because  she  had  had  that  fancy  of  see- 
ing Fabian’s  face,  and  it  had  been  different 
from  what  she  would  have  counted  on  its  be- 
ing. During  the  long  darkness  of  her  im- 
prisonment many  faces  had  risen  before  her, 
and  the  light  was  on  them  all.  She  had  seen 
Melania  often,  in  waking  fancy  and  in  sleep, 
Clodia,  too,  and  Acilia,  and  her  father.  Fa- 
bian’s face  she  had  never  seen,  in  dream 
or  wakeful  imagining.  As  soon  as  she  had 
opened  her  eyes  in  the  sharp  daylight  she  had 
seen  it,  and  it  was  not  as  she  would  have  sup- 
posed, for,  among  many  other  things  it  ex- 
pressed, she  thought  she  saw  a deep  anger,  and 
a passionate  protest  as  against  the  injustice  of 
his  death.  She  would  not  believe  he  had  died 
with  such  angry  resentment  in  his  eyes. 

“It  was  a sick  fancy,  not  a vision,”  she  told 
herself.  “Yes,  this  is  better  than  the  At- 
rium.” 

It  was  like  her  to  be  troubled,  not  for  her- 
self but  for  him.  Again  she  spoke  aloud,  and 
the  thought  crossed  her  mind  that  she  would 


FAUSTULA 


415 


never  hear  now  any  other  voice  but  her  own, 
but  still  it  was  not  of  that  she  was  really 
thinking.  It  pained  her  to  remember  that 
look  of  unspeakable,  angry,  stifled  protest. 
Cruel  and  wickedly  unjust,  as  his  slaughter  had 
been,  it  had  never  once  struck  her  as  possible 
that  he  could  have  died  resentful.  It  was  like 
a shadow  on  the  glory  of  his  crown.  It  shook 
her  peace,  and  with  that  troubling  of  her  peace 
came,  to  her  dismay,  a temptation  utterly  un- 
looked for. 

A sudden  dizziness  came  over  her,  and  she 
thought  she  was  about  to  fall.  Her  knees 
grew  weak,  like  water,  and  would  not  bear  her 
up,  so  that  she  sank  down  in  a heap,  upon  the 
hard  floor,  and  buried  her  face  in  the  woollen 
cloths  of  her  low  bed.  A horrible  coldness 
crept  outwards  from  her  heart  and  made  her 
shiver,  and  for  a few  moments  her  brain  seemed 
bruised  by  some  dull,  hard  blow.  Her  com- 
mand of  herself  failed  her,  and  she  seemed 
sinking  into  a chill  blankness.  Then  a great 
trembling  shook  her,  and  a great  fear,  for  she 
felt  that  someone  was  behind  her,  standing  over 
her,  and  she  waited  breathlessly  for  a voice; 
and  it  came. 

“Listen,”  it  said.  “I  have  been  waiting  for 
a long  time  for  you  to  listen.  I know  you 
well;  and  have  known  you  all  your  life.  I 


416 


FAUSTULA 


called  you  long  ago — and  you  were  coming, 
but  a busybody  would  not  let  you.  I should 
have  given  you  the  peace  you  sought.  Yes.  I 
know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself,  Faus- 
tula.” 

She  crouched  still  in  the  same  attitude,  and 
though  her  head  was  lifted  she  did  not  turn  it. 

“Tell  me  your  name,”  she  said,  and  her  lips 
were  dry  as  she  spoke,  and  would  scarcely 
serve  her.  But  her  heart  felt  drier  still. 

The  answer  did  not  come  quickly ; nor  when 
it  came  did  it  come  willingly.  With  a slow  re- 
luctance the  voice  replied: 

“Light-bearer  was  my  name.” 

It  was  true  that  another  light  than  the  dim 
yellow  flicker  of  the  light  was  there,  but 
though  it  was  behind  her  it  cast  no  shadow  of 
her  own  crouched  figure  on  the  wall  of  rock. 
It  was  lurid,  colourless,  and  made  her  eyes 
burn. 

“Dare  you  turn  and  look  at  me?” 

“Dare,”  said  another  voice  within  herself. 
And  she  rose  trembling,  and  turned  herself 
about. 

“You  tremble.  Drink  of  that  good  wine 
and  it  will  strengthen  you.” 

But  she  shook  her  head,  and  lifted  her  eyes. 
He  was  tall,  clad  in  a long  raiment  of  strange 
hue,  like  that  of  the  throbbing  heart  of  a 


FAUSTULA 


417 


smokeless  fire,  and  his  face  had  been  most  beau- 
tiful, but  something  had  ruined  it.  Not  age, 
for  immortal  youth  that  could  not  age  was  its 
saddest  stamp.  It  was  stamped,  too,  with  pro- 
found knowledge,  perverse  wisdom,  a clear, 
wilful  vision  that  nothing  could  blind,  but  it- 
self so  pitiless  that  it  dazzled  and  blinded  like 
the  naked  sun. 

“Why  are  you  come?” 

“In  pity,”  he  answered,  with  a smile  that 
seemed  to  intensify  the  ineffable  anguish  of  his 
lips.  “Pity  yourself  and  I will  save  you.” 
“How  came  you?” 

He  smiled  again  proudly. 

“Because  I chose.  I go  to  and  fro  in  the 
earth,  where  I will.  But  I stay  nowhere  un- 
welcome. As  I came  you  can  go.  But  put 
your  hand  in  mine  and  I will  carry  you  up 
hence  and  give  you  to  him  for  whose  sake  you 
were  willing  to  die.” 

“To  Christ?” 

Another  smile  lifted  a corner  of  the  tortured 
lips  that  should  have  been  so  lovely. 

“To  Fabian.  It  is  for  his  sake  that  death 
has  seemed  to  you  so  sweet.  You  cheat  your- 
self. Me  you  cannot  cheat.  But  you  have 
been  cheated.  Fabian  is  alive.  You  jostle  to 
meet  him  in  heaven.  He  is  not  there.  If  you 
should  enter  there  you  would  find  it  empty, 


418 


FAUSTULA 


for  he  is  here  on  earth;  and  the  heaven-folk 
would  mock  at  you  and  thrust  you  down ; they 
know  it  is  Fabian  you  seek,  not ” 

“Say  His  name.  Why  do  you  stumble  at 
it?” 

“It  needs  not.  You  know  it,  and  you  know 
it  is  not  Him  you  die  for  but  for  Fabian  who 
lives  and  waits  for  you.  Hold  your  hand  out 
to  me  and  I will  bring  you  to  him.  In  pity  I 
came;  pity  yourself.” 

“Pity  me,  Thou”  Faustula  whispered,  not 
to  him,  and  held  her  hands  straightly  crossed. 

“Answer  him,”  said  that  other  voice. 

“I  did  not  come  here  for  Fabian,”  she  said 
bravely,  “and  I will  not  go  hence  for  him.  If 
you  were  the  Light-Bearer  you  have  spilled  it. 
I came  for  Christ  and  I will  wait  for  Him.” 

At  the  N ame  she  uttered  the  other  dwindled 
as  a fire  that  is  spent,  and  he  ceased,  as  though 
he  had  never  been  there.  So  Faustula  was  left 
alone,  tired,  but  in  peace. 


CHAPTER  XL VI 


There  came  other  temptations  to  Faustula, 
but  they  did  not  again  embody  them- 
selves, take  shape  and  urge  her  with  audible 
speech.  Their  assault  was  from  within,  from 
the  recesses  of  mind  and  heart;  so  that  it 
seemed  harder  to  be  sure  that  she  was  not 
yielding  to  them. 

Suddenly  all  her  youth  seemed  to  arise 
within  her  and  make  angry  protest  against  hei4 
cruel  unjust  fate.  All  the  happiness  youth 
holds  as  its  prerogative  spread  itself  to  her 
fancy  like  a picture,  of  tender  yet  brilliant  col- 
ouring; and  something  within  her  bade  her  at 
least  regret,  grudge  it,  and  cry  out  against  the 
pitiless  decree  that  had  robbed  her  of  it. 

It  was  very  hard  not  to  yield,  not  to  bemoan 
herself  and  protest  that  she  had  done  nought 
for  which  justice  should  have  punished  her. 
But  she  did  not  yield,  because,  instead  of  ar- 
guing she  prayed;  refusing  to  answer  herself, 
she  would  only  speak  to  God. 

How  pitiful  it  would  be  if,  martyred  in  fact, 
her  will  should  fail,  and  she  should  after  all  be 
no  martyr  because  she  grudged  the  price  she 
could  not  help  paying!  This  very  thought 

419 


420 


FAUSTULA 


brought  with  it  a new  and  subtle  temptation. 

“None  of  the  martyrs/’  it  whispered,  “have 
suffered  like  you.  In  a few  moments  their 
pain  was  over.  From  this  life,  by  one  swift, 
sharp  step,  they  entered  heaven.  Your  death 
is  spread  over  months ; and  even  now  that  you 
are  as  surely  dying  as  if  wounded  by  some  mor- 
tal stroke,  your  death  will  drag  its  slow  length 
over  many  days.  You  are  suffering  more 
than  the  others.  God  must  love  you  better 
than  any  of  them;  and  God’s  love  is  not  given 
with  blind,  causeless,  unreasoned  caprice — 
you  must  excel  them,  some  way,  in  yourself. 
That  is  why  He  lays  on  you  a greater  weight 
of  hard  endurance.  To  those  most  worthy  he 
accords  the  privilege  of  being  most  like  Him- 
self in  suffering.  His  own  passion  was  not 
really  crowded  into  a few  hours;  it  began  long 
before  its  outward  circumstance — that  yours 
has  been  so  long-drawn  is  His  sign  that  you 
are  specially  near  Him,  and  it  is  for  your  mer- 
its that  He  has  seemed  to  stand  by  unmoved 
without  interference.” 

How  hard  it  was  to  know  if  these  were  her 
own  words,  or  mere  rebel  chatter  of  vagrant 
thoughts  she  was  too  weak  to  master. 

“It  does  not  matter  though  I cannot  know,” 
she  said  to  God.  “You  know.  I leave  it  to 
your  charity.” 


FAUSTULA 


421 


She  fell  at  last  into  a sleep  of  sheer  weak- 
ness, and  could  not  guess  how  long  she  had 
slept.  When  she  awoke  she  was  hungry,  and 
cut  her  loaf  in  two,  intending  to  cut  one  half 
again  in  two,  and  use  only  a little  of  one  of  the 
halves.  It  seemed  to  her  that,  divided  into 
eight  little  portions,  it  would  keep  her  alive  as 
many  days — though  to  live  longer  would  but 
make  longer  the  slow  agony  of  her  death.  It 
seemed  to  her  a plain  duty  to  keep  the  life  God 
had  given  her  as  long  as  possibly  might  be. 
She  knew  why  they  had  given  her  so  sharp  a 
knife;  she  guessed  that  if  she  drank  the  wine 
put  for  her,  she  would  escape  the  torture  that 
waiting  must  bring ; but  she  was  sure  that,  cer- 
tain as  death’s  coming  was,  it  was  her  part  to 
wait  patiently  with  such  courage  as  God  might 
give  her.  If  He  lent  her  none,  still  she  must 
wait. 

“No  patience  can  alter  the  decree  of  your 
death,”  whispered  that  inner  rebel  voice  that 
she  could  only  pray  God  not  to  take  as  hers. 
“When  the  fact  is  certain  what  difference  can 
a day  less  or  more  make?  Heathen  injustice 
passed  the  sentence;  not  God.  Even  heathen 
mercy  leaves  you  knife  and  cup.  Is  His 
mercy  less?  Does  He  insist  on  torture  being 
added  to  death?  Mind  you  of  this — in  the 
final  weakness  of  your  body  you  may  curse 


422 


FAUSTULA 


Him,  and  die  with  that  curse  upon  your  lips. 
Die  now , while  still  you  have  strength  to 
see  that  this  death  is  dealt  by  heathen  hands, 
not  His.” 

She  could  only  protest,  and  protest  again,  to 
God  that  these  words  were  not  meant  by  her. 

“Listen,”  murmured  another  voice,  smooth 
and  persuasive,  “you  know  not  the  Scriptures. 
It  is  written  in  them : ‘though  you  should  drink 
of  any  deadly  thing  it  shall  not  harm  you.’  ” 

“Nay,  Lord,”  she  said,  answering  not  that 
voice,  but  her  Master,  “I  know  not  the  Scrip- 
tures, being  ignorant.  But  I know  Thee.” 

And  then,  being  hungry,  she  ate  sparingly 
of  her  bread.  It  tasted  sweeter  than  any  she 
had  ever  eaten ; and  it  gave  her  almost  immedi- 
ate strength. 

“Lord,”  she  whispered,  “I  am  but  a fool. 
That  one  temptation  I can  fling  down.” 

And  she  took  the  stoup  into  her  hand  and 
poured  all  the  wine  out  upon  the  rocky  floor  of 
the  tomb,  in  a red  stream,  till  not  a drop  was 
left  in  the  big  cup. 

That  God  blest  her  for  it  she  knew,  for  in  a 
moment  she  heard  a strange  sweet  sound  of 
singing;  whence  she  could  not  tell — from  some 
far  distance,  for  it  was  wordless,  muffled,  al- 
most inaudible,  and  yet  there.  And  to  her 
there  seemed  to  be  another  sign;  for,  from  the 


FAUSTULA 


423 


place  where  the  wine  fell,  she  saw  a small  yel- 
lowish-black snake  glide  swiftly  to  the  wall  and 
disappear. 

Thanking  God  she  took  the  knife,  and  re- 
solved that  with  it  she  would  cut  her  bread  into 
eight  portions  and  then  scrape  the  sharp  edges 
of  the  blade  up  and  down  the  rock-wall  of  her 
grave  until  all  its  tempting  sharpness  should 
be  spoilt. 

And  this  she  did;  but  as  she  cut  the  second 
half  of  her  loaf  she  came  upon  a tiny  parch- 
ment that  had  been  hidden  in  the  bread.  It 
was  curled  tightly  up,  and  her  heart  gave  a 
horrible  leap  as  she  found  it,  and  with  tremu- 
lous fingers  began  to  untwist  it.  There  was 
writing  on  the  inner  side;  but,  before  she  read 
it  she  would  do  what  she  had  resolved,  and  she 
let  it  go  so  that  it  curled  sharply  up  again. 
Then  she  finished  dividing  the  loaf,  and  rose 
from  her  seat  upon  the  bed  with  the  knife  in 
her  hand,  and  went  with  it  to  the  wall,  where 
she  did  exactly  as  she  had  promised  to  herself 
that  she  would  do.  When  one  edge  of  the 
blade  was  quite  blunt  she  broke  off  the  sharp 
point,  for  it  was  like  a dagger,  and  was  about 
to  spoil  the  other  edge  when  that  voice  she 
feared  whispered  again: 

“Pause — it  is  not  too  late.  There  is  no  pain 
yet.  When  the  horror  of  torture  comes  you 


424 


FAUSTULA 


will  long  for  this  kindly  blade.  ...  Is  it  not 
greater  courage,  too,  to  keep  it,  and  not  use  it, 
than  to  make  its  use  impossible?” 

“ Courage  is  neither  here  nor  there — but  obe- 
dience,” she  answered,  and  with  quiet  force  she 
spoiled  the  second  edge  as  she  had  spoiled  the 
first.  But  all  the  time  her  throbbing  heart 
was  choking  her.  What  wras  in  the  writing? 
Now  she  might  turn  and  read. 

She  turned  and  took  the  little  tight  roll  of 
parchment  in  her  hand ; but  her  heart  hurt  her 
with  its  hammer-like  beating,  and  her  brain 
seemed  to  melt  like  water.  She  knew  she  was 
staggering,  and  clutched,  to  hold  herself  up- 
right, at  the  little  table  on  which  lamp  and 
bread  and  empty  flagon  were.  As  she  fell  her- 
self they  fell  with  her,  and  her  lamp  went  out. 

When  her  senses  came  to  her  again  she  was 
in  utter  darkness.  Groping  she  found  her  bits 
of  bread,  and  felt  that  they  were  sopped  in  oil. 
Tasting  she  found  they  were  horribly  nause- 
ous. 

Nevertheless  she  gathered  up  all  the  eight 
pieces  and  resolved  that  day  by  day  she  would 
eat  one.  The  oil  was  rancid  and  horrible;  but 
oil  of  olives  is  food,  and  it  would  feed  her  like 
the  bread.  IIow  was  she  to  know  when  day 
succeeded  day? 

“Nay  I cannot  know,”  she  confessed.  “I 


FAUSTULA 


425 


will  eat  when  hunger  presses  me  hard,  and  that 
is  all  I can  do.” 

Still  she  prayed:  and  in  the  darkness  no 
other  temptation  was  suffered  to  assault  her. 
About  her  loneliness  a thick  fence  was  set  that 
none  of  those  who  had  tormented  before  might 
invade. 

Sometimes  too,  merciful  sleep  came  to  her, 
dreamless  and  sweet  like  a child’s. 

After  such  a sleep  she  awoke  and  knelt  upon 
the  floor  to  pray  again. 

Again  there  came  the  sound  of  singing,  muf- 
fled and  wordless,  from  some  unmeasured  dis- 
tance and  she  knelt  upright  to  listen,  her  eyes 
gazing  into  the  blackness.  Ever  so  slowly  a 
small  round  white  spot  showed,  as  upon  the 
wall,  and  its  whiteness  grew  and  gathered  f orm ; 
a disc  of  pure,  soft-glowing  radiance. 

“Ecce”  a voice  sounded,  not  far  off,  “Ecce 
Panis  Angelorum ." 

Slowly,  from  the  wall,  the  round  white  disc 
came  to  her.  And  it  hung  in  the  air  above  her 
head. 

“Hast  thou  anything  to  ask  of  me?  Ask 
and  I will  give  it.” 

The  word  came  from  the  White  Thing  it- 
self. 

“Ask  life,”  the  other  dreaded  voice  mur- 
mured in  her  ear. 


426 


FAUSTULA 


“Nothing,”  she  answered. 

A sigh  of  bitter,  loveless  anguish  and  dis- 
appointment sounded  in  her  ear,  and  he  who 
had  bidden  her  ask  life  spoke  no  more. 

“Nothing,  Lord,”  she  whispered  again. 

“Then  I will  give  thee  all.  Myself  and  all 
else.  Because  thou  hast  chosen  thus  I give 
thee  what  thou  hast  chosen,  and  what  thou  hast 
not  chosen  too.” 

Before  the  portal  of  her  lips  the  round  white 
thing  hovered,  and  she  opened  them. 

Thus  Faustula  in  her  grave  made  her  first 
Communion. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 


Faustulus  came  no  more  to  Rome,  for 
Faustulus  was  dead,  his  body  sleeping 
not  far  from  that  of  the  girl-martyr  Merula. 
It  was  by  country  folk,  who  had  seen  him  at 
Mass  in  the  morning,  that  he  was  found  before 
the  life  was  quite  ebbed  out.  And  he  made 
them  know  that  he  would  be  carried  back  to  the 
little  chapel  on  the  knoll  by  the  roadside. 
They  fetched  their  old  priest  to  him  and  be- 
tween them  all  was  done  that  anyone  could 
do;  but  all  was  of  no  avail.  Such  simple 
restoratives  as  they  could  give  brought  back 
the  power  to  utter  a few  words;  that  was 
about  all. 

“Faustula  . . .”  he  whispered. 

“Your  daughter?”  asked  the  old  priest,  hold- 
ing the  hand  already  cold. 

“Yes.” 

“With  her,”  he  added  after  a long  pause. 
The  old  man  pondered  and  bade  God  show 
him  the  dying  father’s  meaning. 

“You  want,”  he  asked  after  a patient  listen- 
ing for  God’s  showing.  “You  want  to  be  with 
her?” 

Yes:  that  was  what  Faustulus  wanted. 

427 


428 


FAUSTULA 


“I  only  know  one  way,”  the  old  priest  said 
with  a shy  simplicity. 

“Yes,  that  way.” 

“In  heaven?” 

Yes,  in  the  Christian’s  heaven,  since  he  had 
not  been  able  to  keep  her  here. 

The  old  man  paused,  uncertain.  lie  could 
not  tell  if  this  heathen  believed,  or  knew,  any- 
thing of  what  Christ’s  servants  believe.  It  was 
too  late  for  questions,  too  late  for  teaching. 
God  knew.  And  God  Himself  can  lighten  in 
a brief  moment  the  darkness  of  a long  life,  as 
He  can  pardon  in  a moment  a life’s  offence. 

The  kind  grey  head  was  bent  low  near  the 
dying  man’s  ear  and  he  asked  him  whether  he 
repented  all  his  faults. 

“She  forgives  them.” 

They  were  the  last  words  Faustula’s  father 
could  make  his  bps  speak.  W ere  they  enough  ? 

The  old  man  weighed  them,  and  he  told  him- 
self they  sufficed.  Faustula  forgave;  her 
father  knew  that.  Would  God’s  generosity 
f all  short  of  hers  ? Will  the  Master  let  himself 
be  outdone  by  the  servant?  The  Teacher  for- 
get the  lesson  taught? 

“Nay,  then,  I know  He  has  forgiven,”  the 
country  priest  told  himself. 

Faustulus  could  speak  no  more,  but  he  lived 
still;  lived  while  the  water  of  baptism  flowed 


FAUSTULA 


429 


upon  his  cold  brow;  then  that  other  water  rose 
to  meet  it,  the  water  of  the  river  that  flows 
about  this  darkness  beyond  which  there  is  light. 

Faustulus  came  no  more  to  Rome : but  to  the 
Christians  in  Rome  crept  at  last  the  tidings  of 
his  death,  and  they  kept  the  news  to  them- 
selves: lest  the  knowledge  of  his  death  should 
hasten  that  of  Faustula. 

It  was  on  the  night  of  her  baptism  that 
Domnio  went  to  the  Pope  and  told  him  the 
wonderful  news  that  she  was  in  fact,  as  well 
as  in  will,  a Christian,  and  that  God  had  given 
a daughter  to  her  in  faith. 

“He  has  given  her  father  to  her  prayers,  and 
now  this  poor  girl.  You  told  of  her  father’s 
journey  and  its  ending  in  his  baptism?” 

“I  was  given  no  chance.  Casca,  the  jailor, 
suffered  me  to  do  my  office,  as  he  had  prom- 
ised: he  would  allow  no  private  speech  with 
her.” 

“In  heaven  she  will  know,  for  her  father  will 
tell  her  himself.” 

As  Domnio  entered  his  own  house,  half  an 
hour  later,  a man  stepped  quietly  out  of  the 
black  shadow  and  said: 

“Let  me  in  with  you.  I am  Fabian.” 
Domnio  trembled  as  they  went  in  together, 
and  he  could  scarcely  bar  the  door,  for  his  hand 
shook. 


430 


FAUSTULA 


“I  thought,”  he  said,  when  they  were  in  his 
poor  bare  room,  “that  you  must  be  dead.” 

“I  was  condemned  to  die,  for  refusing  to 
sacrifice  to  the  standards,  as  my  brother  was 
condemned  long  before;  but  as  he  escaped  so 
did  I.  ...  We  were  not  together,  but  he  had 
my  letter  to  Faustula  and  he  came  here  with 
it.  I know  the  rest.  He  is  with  our  mother.” 
Both  were  silent  for  a time;  then  Domnio 
asked  if  he  knew  also  concerning  Faustula. 

“Yes.  Felix  told  me.  He  alone  knows  I 
am  here.  I came  to-night  and  he  met  me.” 
Domnio  could  scarce  bear  to  look  at  Fabian’s 
face;  scarce  bear  to  speak  to  him  of  Faustula. 

“I  baptized  her  to-night,”  he  said  gently:  and 
told  his  friend  the  wonderful  manner  of  it. 
Then  they  spoke  in  low  sad  tones  of  Faustulus 
and  his  fruitless  journey. 

“Nay,  not  fruitless.  She  would  not  hold  it 
so,”  Domnio  said  with  a grave  reverence. 

“To-morrow,”  Fabian  whispered,  “is  the  last 
of  the  eighty  days?” 

Domnio  could  only  sigh  for  answer. 

“And  this  house,”  Fabian  said,  with  a chill 
horror,  “is  near  the  place.” 

“Yes.  The  only  one  very  near.  It  has  a 
dreary  repute,  and  all  night  the  credulous 
heathen  avoid  it.  That  is  why  I came  to  live 


FAUSTULA 


431 


here.  Our  people  can  come  here  unobserved. 
Here  we  meet  for  the  mysteries  in  the  early 
dawn,  and  many  are  thus  able  to  hear  Mass  and 
receive  Our  Lord  unmolested.” 

“Show  me  the  place.  I would  pray  there.” 
Domnio  took  a lamp,  and  opening  a door, 
like  that  of  a cupboard,  led  the  way  down  by 
a narrow  stone  stair  to  a room  much  beneath 
the  level  on  which  the  house  stood.  It  was  like 
a cellar,  hewn  out  of  the  soft  yellowish  rock. 
At  one  end  was  a rude  stone  altar. 

For  a long  time  Fabian  knelt  praying,  and 
Domnio  knelt  behind  him,  entreating  God  to 
hear  his  prayer. 

•When  Fabian  stood  up  at  last  he  asked 
gravely : 

“Is  it  to-morrow?” 

“Almost  certainly.” 

“Tell  me  all  you  know.” 

“The  tomb  is  made  already.” 

He  would  not  look  at  his  friend’s  face:  let 
God  only  see  the  agony  of  it. 

“Where  is  it?” 

“Out  yonder.” 

And  Domnio  pointed  behind  the  rock-well 
where  the  little  altar  stood. 

“How  far?” 

“Sixty  feet — seventy,  perhaps.” 


432 


FAUSTULA 


Already  Domnio  was  trembling  again;  for 
already  he  could  divine  a purpose  in  Fabian’s 
questions.  And  Fabian  told  it. 

“Many  men  must  labour,”  he  said,  “must 
labour — surely  there  are  many  we  can  trust.” 

“Yes.  I know  many.  And  I will  labour 
with  you.” 

Before  the  end  of  that  same  night  the  work 
had  begun.  The  rock  was  soft,  and  easy  to 
hew,  but  all  that  was  taken  out  had  to  be  re- 
moved or  the  cellar-chapel  would  itself  have 
been  blocked.  Every  room  in  the  desolate 
house  was  piled  with  it.  Only  at  the  hour  of 
Mass  was  their  labour  interrupted. 

At  Mass  all  prayed  for  the  one  thing;  and, 
at  the  first  Mass  after  Faustula  had  gone  down 
nto  her  grave  alive,  Fabian  knelt  to  receive  Our 
Lord.  All  night  he  had  been  toiling. 

As  Domnio  came  to  him,  holding  their  Mas- 
ter in  His  White  disguise,  all  in  the  chapel 
adoring  and  watching,  they  saw  It  leave  the 
priest’s  fingers  and  hang  motionless  a breath- 
ing-space in  the  air.  Then  It  receded,  and  lost 
Itself  against  the  wall  of  rock. 

“He  has  gone  to  her,”  Fabian  knew.  And 
he  longed  to  know  whether  he  himself  might 
follow. 

It  was  not  till  the  ninth  day  that  the  long 
tunnel  was  completed,  and  the  last  dividing 


FAUSTULA 


433 


wall  of  rock  gave  way.  Fabian  threw  down 
his  mattock  and  snatched  the  lamp  Domnio 
held.  When  they  could  enter  together  they 
found  her  whom  they  sought. 

“She  is  not  for  me,”  Fabian  thought.  “Nor 
am  I worthy.  Christ  has  forestalled  me.  She 
was  for  Him  alone.” 

Domnio  also  thought  that  she  was  dead. 
She  knelt  against  her  low  bed,  as  if  she  had 
died  praying ; but  she  was  not  dead.  God  had 
taken  her  long  will  for  deed,  and  if  she  was  a 
martyr  it  was  not  by  the  mere  passing  out  of 
life  that  she  had  not  that  likeness  to  the  King 
of  Martyrs.  They  have  their  Queen  also,  and 
Faustula  was  one  of  her  hand-maidens. 

“I  know  I am  not  worthy  of  her,”  Fabian 
told  his  friend.  “Is  it  a sacrilege  that  I should 
take  her?” 

“Nay,  who  is  worthy  of  God’s  least  gift? 
And  His  greatest  is  less  than  Himself  that  He 
gives  to  us  and  we  accept,  unworthy  but  thank- 
ful. He  Himself  has  given  her  to  you,  else 
would  He  have  taken  her  from  you  to  Him- 
self.” 

And  since  He  had  left  her  here,  what  other 
shelter  was  there  for  her  except  in  the  reverent 
love  of  the  man  whom  God  had  used  to  save 
her  from  an  unjust  death? 

Her  earthly  love  had  not  stood  between  her 


434 


FAUSTULA 


and  her  Master,  and  the  Master  would  not 
stand  between  her  and  her  earthly  love. 

She  herself  had  no  doubt. 

“I  am  a Christian,  but  I know  nothing.  God 
has  given  me  a space  to  learn.  You  began  the 
teaching;  it  is  yours  to  finish  it.” 

It  was  in  the  little  chapel  under  Domnio’s 
house  whence  Christ  had  gone  to  her,  that  He 
blest  her  union  with  the  only  friend  of  her  deso- 
late orphaned  years. 

For  months  they  lived  in  hiding,  in  Domnio’s 
house.  Then,  in  June,  died  the  hapless  Julian, 
who  had  brought  all  the  might  of  his  imperial 
power  against  the  Galilean  and  been  con- 
quered. Slowly  the  whisper  crept  to  Rome, 
and  the  nightmare  of  heathenism  reborn  was 
rudely  wakened. 

Then  it  was  that  Faustula’s  old  friend 
Claudia,  Vestalis  Maxima,  plucked  courage  to 
profess  the  faith  for  which  she  had  not  dared 
to  die,  but  had  long  known  to  be  true.  For 
her  there  was  no  martyrdom ; only  the  degrada- 
tion of  her  statue  in  the  Atrium  Vestae,  and  the 
obliteration  of  her  name  upon  its  base. 


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the  best  that  can  be  had. 

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LIBRARY  WILL  BE  FORWARDED  AT  ONCE 

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a Month'  Catholic  Circulating  Library  !“on'£ 


JUVENILE  BOOKS 

20  Copyrighted  Stories  for  the  Young,  by  the  Best  Authors 
Special  net  price,  $10.00 

You  get  the  books  at  once,  and  have  the  use  of  them,  while  making  easy 

payments 

Read  explanation  of  our  Circulating  Library  plan  on  first  page 

Juvenile  Library  A 

TOM  PLAYFAIR;  OR,  MAKING  A START.  By  Rev.  F.  J.  Finn,  S.J. 
“The  best  boy’s  book  that  ever  came  from  the  press.” 

THE  CAVE  BY  THE  BEECH  FORK.  By  Rev.  H.  S.  Spalding,  S.J.  “This 
is  a story  full  of  go  and  adventure.” 

HARRY  RUSSELL,  A ROCKLAND  COLLEGE  BOY.  By  Rev.  J.  E.  Copus, 
S.J.  “Father  Copus  takes  the  college  hero  where  Father  Finn  has  left 
him,  through  the  years  to  graduation.” 

CHARLIE  CHITTYWICK.  By  Rev.  David  Bearne,  S.J.  Father  Bearne 
shows  a wonderful  knowledge  and  fine  appreciation  of  boy  character. 
There  is  no  mark  of  mawkishness  in  the  book. 

NAN  NOBODY.  By  Mary  T.  Waggaman.  “Keeps  one  fascinated  till  the 
last  page  is  reached.” 

LOYAL  BLUE  AND  ROYAL  SCARLET.  By  Marion  A.  Taggart.  “Will 
help  keep  awake  the  strain  of  hero  worship  and  ideal  patriotism.” 

THE  GOLDEN  LILY.  By  Katharine  T.  Hinkson.  “Another  proof  of  the 
author’s  wonderful  genius.” 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  DOORWAY.  By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.  “A  bright,  spark- 
ling book.” 

OLD  CHARLMONT’S  SEED-BED.  By  Sara  T.  Smith.  “A  delightful  story 
of  Southern  school  life.” 

THE  MADCAP  SET  AT  ST.  ANNE’S.  By  Marion  J.  Brunowe.  “Plenty 
of  fun  and  frolic,  with  high  moral  principle.”  ’ 

BUNT  AND  BILL.  By  Clara  Mulholland.  “There  are  passages  of  true 
pathos  and  humor  in  this  pretty  tale.” 

THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  FLOCK.  By  Maurice  F.  Egan.  “They  are  by  no 
means  faultless  young  people  and  their  hearts  lie  in  the  right  places.” 

PICKLE  AND  PEPPER.  By  Ella  L.  Dorsey.  “This  story  is  clever  and 
witty — there  is  not  a dull  page.” 

A HOSTAGE  OF  WAR.  By  Mary  G.  Bonesteel.  “A  wide-awake  story, 
brimful  of  incident  and  easy  humor.” 

AN  EVERY  DAY  GIRL.  By  Mary  T.  Crowley.  “One  of  the  few  tales  that 
will  appeal  to  the  heart  of  every  girl.” 

AS  TRUE  AS  GOLD.  By  Mary  E.  Mannix.  “This  book  will  make  a name 
for  itself.” 

AN  HEIR  OF  DREAMS.  By  S.  M.  O’Malley.  “The  book  is  destined  to 
become  a true  friend  of  our  boys.” 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  HORNBY  HALL.  By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.  Sure  to  stir 
the  blood  of  every  real  boy  and  to  delight  with  its  finer  touches  the  heart 
of  every  true  girl.” 

TWO  LITTLE  GIRLS.  By  Lillian  Mack.  “A  real  tale  of  real  children.” 

RIDINGDALE  FLOWER  SHOW.  By  Rev.  David  Bearne,  S.J.  “His  sym- 
pathy with  boyhood  is  so  evident  and  his  understanding  so  perfect.” 


2 


20  Copyrighted  Stories  for  the  Young 

By  the  Best  Catholic  Writers 
Special  Neot  F*rice,  $10.00 
$1.00  down,  $i.oo  a month 

Read  explanation  of  our  Circulating  Library  plan  on  preceding  pages 


Juvenile  Library  B 

HIS  FIRST  AND  LAST  APPEARANCE.  By  Rev.  F.  J.  Finn,  S.J.  Pro- 
fusely illustrated.  “A  delightful  story  by  Father  Finn,  which  will  be 
popular  with  the  girls  as  well  as  with  the  boys.” 

THE  SHERIFF  OF  THE  BEECH  FORK.  By  Rev.  H.  S.  Spalding,  S.J. 
“From  the  outset  the  reader’s  attention  is  captivated  and  never  lags.” 

SAINT  CUTHBERT’S.  By  Rev.  J.  E.  Copus,  S.J.  “A  truly  inspiring  tale, 
full  of  excitement.” 

THE  TAMING  OF  POLLY.  By  Ella  Loraine  Dorsey.  “Polly  with  her 
cool  head,  her  pure  heart  and  stern  Western  sense  of  justice.” 

STRONG-ARM  OF  AVALON.  By  Mary  T.  Waggaman.  “Takes  hold  of  the 
interest  and  of  the  heart  and  never  lets  go.” 

JACK  HILDRETH  ON  THE  NILE.  By  C.  May.  “Courage,  truth,  honest 
dealing  with  friend  and  foe.” 

A KLONDIKE  PICNIC.  By  Eleanor  C.  Donnelly.  “Alive  with  the  charm 
that  belongs  to  childhood.” 

A COLLEGE  BOY.  By  Anthony  Yorke.  “Healthy,  full  of  life,  full  of 
incident.” 

THE  GREAT  CAPTAIN.  By  Katharine  T.  Hinkson.  “Makes  the  most 
interesting  and  delightful  reading.” 

THE  YOUNG  COLOR  GUARD.  By  Mary  G.  Bonesteel.  “The  attractive- 
ness of  the  tale  is  enhanced  by  the  realness  that  pervades  it.” 

THE  HALDEMAN  CHILDREN.  By  Mary  E.  Mannix.  “Full  of  people 
entertaining,  refined,  and  witty.” 

PAULINE  ARCHER.  By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.  “Sure  to  captivate  the  hearts 
of  all  juvenile  readers.” 

THE  ARMORER  OF  SOLINGEN.  By  W.  Herchenbach.  “Cannot  fail  to 
inspire  honest  ambition.” 

THE  INUNDATION.  By  Canon  Schmid.  “Sure  to  please  the  young 
readers  for  whom  it  is  intended.” 

THE  BLISSYLVANIA  POST-OFFICE.  By  Marion  A.  Taggart.  “Pleasing 
and  captivating  to  young  people.” 

DIMPLING’S  SUCCESS.  By  Clara  Mulholland.  “Vivacious  and  natural 
and  cannot  fail  to  be  a favorite.” 

BISTOURI.  By  A.  Melandri.  “How  Bistouri  traces  out  the  plotters  and 
foils  them  makes  interesting  reading.” 

FRED’S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER.  By  Sara  T.  Smith.  “The  heroine  wins  her 
way  into  the  heart  of  every  one.” 

THE  SEA-GULL’S  ROCK.  By  J.  Sandeau.  “The  intrepidity  of  the  little 
hero  will  appeal  to  every  boy.” 

JUVENILE  ROUND  TABLE.  First  Series.  A collection  of  twenty  stories 
by  the  foremost  writers,  with  many  full-page  illustrations. 


3 


20  Copyrighted  Stories  for  the  Young 

By  the  Best  Catholic  Writers 
Special  Net  Price,  $10.00 
$1.00  down,  $i.oo  a month 

Read  explanation  of  our  Circulating  Library  plan  on  preceding  pages 


Juvenile  Library  C 

PERCY  WYNN;  OR,  MAKING  A BOY  OF. HIM.  By  Rev.  F.  J.  Finn,  S.J. 
“The  most  successful  Catholic  juvenile  published.” 

THE  RACE  FOR  COPPER  ISLAND.  By  Rev.  H.  S.  Spalding,  S.J. 
“Father  Spalding’s  descriptions  equal  those  of  Cooper.” 

SHADOWS  LIFTED.  By  Rev,  J.  E.  Copus,  S.J.  “We  know  of  no  books 
more  delightful  and  interesting.” 

HOW  THEY  WORKED  THEIR  WAY,  AND  OTHER  STORIES.  By 
Maurice  F.  Egan.  “A  choice  collection  of  stories  by  one  of  the  most 
popular  writers.” 

WINNETOU,  THE  APACHE  KNIGHT.  By  C.  May.  “Chapters  of  breatn- 
less  interest.” 

MILLY  AVELING.  By  Sara  Trainer  Smith.  “The  best  story  Sara  Trainer 
Smith  has  ever  written.” 

THE  TRANSPLANTING  OF  TESSIE.  By  Mary  T.  Waggaman.  “An  ex- 
cellent  girl’s  story.” 

THE  PLAYWATER  PLOT.  By  Mary  T.  Waggaman.  “How  the  plotters 
are  captured  and  the  boy  rescued  makes  a very  interesting  story.” 

AN  ADVENTURE  WITH  THE  APACHES.  By  Gabriel  Ferry. 

PANCHO  AND  PANCHITA.  By  Mary  E.  Mannix.  “Full  of  color  and 
warmth  of  life  in  old  Mexico.” 

RECRUIT  TOMMY  COLLINS.  By  Mary  G.  Bonesteel.  “Many  a boyish 
heart  will  beat  in  envious  admiration  of  little  Tommy.” 

BY  BRANSCOME  RIVER.  By  Marion  A.  Taggart.  “A  creditable  book  in 
every  way.” 

THE  QUEEN’S  PAGE.  By  Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson.  “Will  arouse  the 
young  to  interest  in  historical  matters  and  is  a good  story  well  told.” 

MARY  TRACY’S  FORTUNE.  By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.  “Sprightly,  interesting 
and  well  written.” 

BOB-O’LINK.  By  Mary  T.  Waggaman.  “Every  boy  and  girl  will  be  de- 
lighted with  Bob-o’Link.” 

THREE  GIRLS  AND  ESPECIALLY  ONE.  By  Marion  A.  Taggart.  “There 
is  an  exquisite  charm  in  the  telling.” 

WRONGFULLY  ACCUSED.  By  W.  Herchenbach.  “A  simple  tale,  enter- 
tainingly told.” 

THE  CANARY  BIRD.  By  Canon  Schmid.  “The  story  is  a fine  one  and 
will  be  enjoyed  by  boys  and  girls.” 

FIVE  O’CLOCK  STORIES.  By  S.  H.  C.  J.  “The  children  who  are  blessed 
with  such  stories  have  much  to  be  thankful  for.” 

JUVENILE  ROUND  TABLE.  Second  Series.  A collection  of  twenty  stories 
by  the  foremost  writers,  with  many  full-page  illustrations. 


4 


20  Copyrighted  Stories  for  the  Young 

By  the  Best  Catholic  Writers 
Special  Net  Price,  $10.00 
$1.00  down,  $i.oo  a month 

Read  explanation  of  our  Circulating  Library  plan  on  preceding  pages 


Juvenile  Library  D 

THE  WITCH  OF  RIDINGDALE.  By  Rev.  David  Bearne,  S.J.  “Here  is  a 
story  for  boys  that  bids  fair  to  equal  any  of  Father  Finn’s  successes.” 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  CLEVERLY.  By  George  Barton.  There  is  a peculiar 
charm  about  this  novel  that  the  discriminating  reader  will  ascribe  to  the 
author’s  own  personality. 

HARMONY  FLATS.  By  C.  S.  Whitmore.  The  characters  in  this  story  are 
all  drawn  true  to  life,  and  the  incidents  are  exciting. 

WAYWARD  WINIFRED.  By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.  A story  for  girls.  Its 
youthful  readers  will  enjoy  the  vivid  description,  lively  conversations,  and 
plenty  of  striking  incidents,  all  winding  up  happily. 

TOM  LOSELY:  BOY.  By  Rev.  J.  E.  Copus,  S.J.  Illustrated.  The  writer 
knows  boys  and  boy  nature,  and  small-boy  nature  too. 

MORE  FIVE  O’CLOCK  STORIES.  By  S.  H.  C.  J.  “The  children  who  are 
blessed  with  such  stories  have  much  to  be  thankful  for.” 

JACK  O’LANTERN.  By  Mary  T.  Waggaman.  This  book  is  alive  with  in- 
terest. It  is  full  of  life  and  incident. 

THE  BERKLEYS.  By  Emma  Howard  Wight.  A truly  inspiring  tale,  full 
of  excitement.  There  is  not  a dull  page. 

LITTLE  MISSY.  By  Mary  T.  Waggaman.  A charming  story  for  children 
which  will  be  enjoyed  by  older  folk  as  well. 

TOM’S  LUCK-POT.  By  Mary  T.  Waggaman.  Full  of  fun  and  charming 
incidents — a book  that  every  boy  should  read. 

CHILDREN  OF  CUPA.  By  Mary  E.  Mannix.  One  of  the  most  thoroughly 
unique  and  charming  books  that  has  found  its  way  to  the  reviewing  desk 
in  many  a day. 

FOR  THE  WHITE  ROSE.  By  Katharine  T.  Hinkson.  This  book  is  some- 
thing more  than  a story;  but,  as  a mere  story,  it  is  admirably  well  written. 

THE  DOLLAR  HUNT.  From  the  French  by  E.  G.  Martin.  Those  who  wish 
to  get  a fascinating  tale  should  read  this  story. 

THE  VIOLIN  MAKER.  From  the  original  of  Otto  v.  Schaching,  by  Sara 
Trainer  Smith.  There  is  much  truth  in  this  simple  little  story. 

“JACK.”  By  S.  H.  C.  J.  As  loving  and  lovable  a little  fellow  as  there  is  in 
the  world  is  “Jack ,’r  the  “pickle,”  the  “ragamuffin,”  the  defender  of  per- 
secuted kittens  and  personal  principles. 

A SUMMER  AT  WOODVILLE.  By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.  This  is  a beautiful 
book,  in  full  sympathy  with  and  delicately  expressive  of  the  author’s 
creations. 

DADDY  DAN.  By  Mary  T.  Waggaman.  This  is  a rattling  good  story  for 
boys. 

THE  BELL  FOUNDRY.  By  Otto  v.  Schaching.  So  interesting  that  the 
reader  will  find  difficulty  in  tearing  himself  away. 

TOOR ALLADD Y.  By  Julia  C.  Walsh.  An  exciting  story  of  the  varied 
fortunes  of  an  orphan  boy  from  abject  poverty  in  a dismal  cellar  to  success. 

JUVENILE  ROUND  TABLE.  Third  Series.  A collection  of  twenty  storie? 
by  the  foremost  writers. 


5 


a Month  Catholic  Circulating  Library 


NOVELS 

12  Copyrighted  Novels  by  the  Best  Authors 

Special  Price,  $12.00 

You  get  the  books  at  once,  and  have  the  use  of  them  while  making  easy 

payments 

Read  explanation  of  our  Circulating  Library  plan  on  first  page 


Library  of  Novels  No.  I 

THE  RULER  OF  THE  KINGDOM.  By  Grace  Keon.  “Will  charm  any 
reader.” 

KIND  HEARTS  AND  CORONETS.  By  J.  Harrison.  “A  real,  true  life 
history,  the  kind  one  could  live  through  and  never  read  it  for  romance.” 

IN  THE  DAYS  OF  KING  HAL.  By  Marion  A.  Taggart.  Illustrated.  “A 
tale  of  the  time  of  Henry  V.  of  England,  full  of  adventure  and  excite- 
ment.” 

HEARTS  OF  GOLD.  By  I.  Edhor.  “It  is  a tale  that  will  leave  its  reader 
the  better  for  knowing  its  heroine,  her  tenderness  and  her  heart  of  gold.” 

THE  HEIRESS  OF  CRONENSTEIN.  By  Countess  Hahn-Hahn.  “An  ex- 
quisite story  of  life  and  love,  told  in  touchingly  simple  words.” 

THE  PILKINGTON  HEIR.  By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.  “Skill  and  strength  are 
shown  in  this  story.  The  plot  is  well  constructed  and  the  characters 
vividly  differentiated.” 

THE  OTHER  MISS  LISLE.  A Catholic  novel  of  South  African  life.  By 
M.  C.  Martin.  A powerful  story  by  a writer  of  distinct  ability. 

IDOLS;  OR,  THE  SECRET  OF  THE  RUE  CHAUSSEE  D’ANTIN.  By 
Raoul  de  Navery.  “The  story  is  a remarkably  clever  one;  it  is  well  con- 
structed and  evinces  a master  hand.” 

THE  SOGGARTH  AROON.  By  Rev.  Joseph  Guinan,  C.C.  A capital  Irish 
story. 

THE  VOCATION  OF  EDWARD  CONWAY.  By  Maurice  F.  Egan.  “This 
is  a novel  of  modern  American  life.  The  scene  is  laid  in  a pleasant  colony 
of  cultivated  people  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  not  far  from  West  Point.” 

A WOMAN  OF  FORTUNE.  By  Christian  Reid.  “That  great  American 
Catholic  novel  for  which  so  much  inquiry  is  made,  a story  true  in  its 
picture  of  Americans  at  home  and  abroad.” 

PASSING  SHADOWS.  By  Anthony  Yorke.  “A  thoroughly  charming 
story.  It  sparkles  from  first  to  last  with  interesting  situations  and 

dialogues  that  are  full  of  sentiment.  There  is  not  a slow  page.” 


6 


*12  Copyrighted  Novels  by  the  Best  Author^ 
Special  Net  Price,  $12.00 
$1.00  down,  $i.oo  a month 

Read  explanation  of  our  Circulating  Library  plan  on  first  page. 


Library  of  Novels  No.  II 

THE  SENIOR  LIEUTENANT’S  WAGER,  and  Other  Stories.  30  stories  by 
30  of  the  foremost  Catholic  writers. 

A DAUGHTER  OF  KINGS.  By  Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson.  “The  book  is 
most  enjoyable.” 

THE  WAY  THAT  LED  BEYOND.  By  J.  Harrison.  “The  story  does  not 
drag,  the  plot  is  well  worked  out,  and  the  interest  endures  to  the  very 
last  page.” 

CORINNE’S  VOW.  By  Mary  T.  Waggaman.  With  16  full-page  illustrations. 
“There  is  genuine  artistic  merit  in  its  plot  and  life-story.  It  is  full  of 
vitality  and  action.” 

THE  FATAL  BEACON.  By  F.  v.  Brackel.  “The  story  is  told  well  and 
clearly,  and  has  a certain  charm  that  will  be  found  interesting.  The  prin- 
cipal characters  are  simple,  good-hearted  people,  and  the  heroine’s  high 
sense  of  courage  impresses  itself  upon  the  reader  as  the  tale  proceeds.” 

THE  MONK’S  PARDON : An  Historical  Romance  of  the  Time  of  Philip  IV. 
of  Spain.  By  Raoul  de  Navery.  “A  story  full  of  stirring  incidents  and 
written  in  a lively,  attractive  style.” 

PERE  MONNIER’S  WARD.  By  Walter  Lecky.  “The  characters  are  life- 
like and  there  is  a pathos  in  the  checkered  life  of  the  heroine.  Pere 
Monnier  is  a memory  that  will  linger.” 

TRUE  STORY  OF  MASTER  GERARD.  By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.  “One  of  the 
most  thoroughly  original  and  delightful  romances  ever  evolved  from  the 
pen  of  a Catholic  writer.” 

THE  UNRAVELING  OF  A TANGLE.  By  Marion  A.  Taggart.  With  four 
full-page  illustrations.  “This  story  tells  of  the  adventures  of  a young 
American  girl,  who,  in  order  to  get  possession  of  a fortune  left  her  by  an 
uncle,  whom  she  had  never  seen,  goes  to  France.” 

THAT  MAN’S  DAUGHTER.  By  Henry  M.  Ross.  “A  well-told  story  of 
American  life,  the  scene  laid  in  Boston,  New  York  and  California.  It  is 
very  interesting.” 

FABIOLA’S  SISTER.  (A  companion  volume  to  Cardinal  Wisewan’s  “Fa- 
biola.”)  Adapted  by  A.  C.  Clarke.  “A  book  to  read — a worthy  sequel 
to  that  masterpiece,  ‘Fabiola.’  ” 

THE  OUTLAW  OF  CAMARGUE:  A Novel.  By  A.  dE  Lamothk.  “A  capital 
novel  with  plenty  of  go  in  it.” 


12  Copyrighted  Novels  by  the  Best  Authors 

Special,  Net  Price,  $>12.00 

$1.00  down,  Si.oo  a month 

Read  explanation  of  our  Circulating  Library  plan  on  first  page. 


Library  of  Novels  No.  Ill 

“NOT  A JUDGMENT.”  By  Grace  Keon.  “Beyond  doubt  the  best  Catholic 
novel  of  the  year.” 

THE  RED  INN  OF  ST.  LYPHAR.  By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.  “A  story  of 
stirring  times  in  France,  when  the  sturdy  Vendeans  rose  in  defence  of 
country  and  religion.” 

HER  FATHER’S  DAUGHTER.  By  Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson.  “So 
dramatic  and  so  intensely  interesting  that  the  reader  will  find  it  difficult 
to  tear  himself  away  from  the  story.” 

O'JT  OF  BONDAGE.  By  M.  Holt.  “Once  his  book  becomes  known  it  will 
be  read  by  a great  many.” 

MARCELLA  GRACE.  By  Rosa  Mulholland.  Mr.  Gladstone  called  this 
novel  a masterpiece. 

THE  CIRCUS-RIDER’S  DAUGHTER.  By  F.  v.  Brackel.  This  work  has 
achieved  a remarkable  success  for  a Catholic  novel,  for  in  less  than  a year 
three  editions  were  printed. 

CARROLL  DARE.  By  Mary  T.  Waggaman.  Illustrated.  “A  thrilling  story, 
with  the  dash  of  horses  and  the  clash  of  swords  on  every  side.” 

DION  AND  THE  SIBYLS.  By  Miles  Keon.  “Dion  is  as  brilliantly,  as 
accurately  and  as  elegantly  classical,  as  scholarly  in  style  and  diction,  as 
fascinating  in  plot  and  as  vivid  in  action  as  Ben  Hur.” 

HER  BLIND  FOLLY.  By  H.  M.  Ross.  A clever  story  with  an  interesting 
and  well-managed  plot  and  many  striking  situations. 

MISS  ERIN.  By  M.  E.  Francis-  “A  captivating  tale  of  Irish  life,  redolent 
of  genuine  Celtic  wit,  love  and  pathos.” 

MR.  BILLY  BUTTONS.  By  Walter  Lecky.  “The  figures  who  move  in 
rugged  grandeur  through  these  pages  are  as  fresh  and  unspoiled  in  their 
way  as  the  good  folk  of  Drumtochty.” 

CONNOR  D’ARCY’S  STRUGGLES.  By  Mrs.  W.  M.  Bertholds.  “A  story 
of  which  the  spirit  is  so  fine  and  the  Catholic  characters  so  nobly  con- 
ceived.” 


S 


Continuation  Libyan/ 


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their  Works.  Four  exquisite  volumes,  containing  the  masterpieces  of  36  of  the 
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LIBRARY  OR 

SHORT  STORIES 


BY  A BRILLIANT  ARRAY  OF  CATHOLIC  AUTHORS 
Original  Stories  by  33  Writers 

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Anna  T.  Sadlier 
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Mary  T.  Waggaman 
Jerome  Harte 
Mary  G.  Bonesteel 
Magdalen  Rock 
Eugenie  Uhlrich 
Alice  Richardson 
Katharine  Jenkins 
Mary  Boyle  O’Reilly 
Clara  Mulholland 


STORIES  BY 

Grace  Keon 
Louisa  Emily  Dobree 
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Margaret  E.  Jordan 
Agnes  M.  Rowe 
Julia  C.  Walsh 
Madge  Mannix 
Leigh  Gordon  Giltner 
Eleanor  C.  Donnelly 
Teresa  Stanton 
H.  J.  Carroll 


Rev.  T.  J.  Livingstone,  S.J. 
Marion  Ames  Taggart 
Maurice  Francis  Egan 
Mary  F.  Nixon-Roulet 
Mrs.  Francis  Chadwick 
Catherine  L.  Meagher 
Anna  Blanche  McGill 
Mary  Catherine  Crowley 
Katherine  Tynan-Hinkson 
Sallie  Margaret  O’Malley 
Emma  Howard  Wight 


10 


goo  PAGES 


500  ILLUSTRATIONS 


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THE  LIFE  OF  OUR  LORD 

' - AND  

SAVIOUR  JESUS  CHRIST 

AND  OF  HIS  VIRGIN  MOTHER  MARY 

FROM  THE  ORIGINAL  OF 

Iv.  C.  BUSINGER,  IvIv.D. 

BY 

Rev.  RICHARD  BRENNAN,  LL.D. 


Quarto,  half  morocco,  full  gilt  side,  gilt  edges,  900  pages, 
500  illustrations  in  the  text  and  32  full-page 
illustrations  by 
M.  FEUERSTEIN 


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11 


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